CIHM 

iCMH 

Microfiche 

Collection  de 

Series 

microfiches 

(Monographs) 

(monographies) 

Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  /  Institut  canadien  de  microreproductions  historiques 


rf^-IQQO 


I 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes  /  Notes  techniques  et  bibliographiques 


The  Institute  has  attempted  to  obtain  the  best  original 
copy  available  for  filming.  Features  of  this  copy  which 
may  be  bibliographically  unique,  which  may  alter  any  of 
the  images  in  the  reproduction,  or  which  may 
significantly  change  the  usual  method  of  filming  are 
checked  below. 


n 

□ 
□ 


n 


Coloured  covers  / 
Couverture  de  couleur 

Covers  damaged  / 
Couverture  ondommagee 

Covers  restored  and/or  laminated  / 
Couverture  restauree  et/ou  pelliculee 

Cover  title  missing  /  Le  titre  de  couverlure  manque 

Coloured  maps  /  Cartes  geographiques  en  couleur 

Coloured  ink  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)  / 
Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 

Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations  / 
Planches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couleur 

Bound  with  other  material  / 
Relie  avec  d'autres  documents 

On!y  edition  available  / 
Seule  edition  disponible 

Tight  binding  may  cause  shadows  or  distortion  along 
interior  margin  /  La  reliure  serree  peut  causer  de 
Tcmbre  ou  de  la  distorsion  le  long  de  la  ma^ge 
interieure. 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restorations  may  appear 
within  the  te)rt.  Whenever  possible,  these  have  been 
omitted  from  filming  /  Use  peut  que  certaines  pages 
blanches  ajoutees  lors  d'une  restauration 
apparaissent  dans  le  texte,  mais,  lorsque  cela  etait 
possible,  ces  pages  n'ont  pas  ete  filmees. 

Additional  comments  / 
Commentaires  supplementaires: 


L'Institut  a  miicrofilme  le  meilleur  exemplaire  qu'il  lui  a 
ete  possible  de  se  procurer  Les  details  de  cet  exem- 
plaite  qui  sont  peut-etre  uniques  du  point  de  vue  bibli- 
ographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier  une  image  reproduite, 
ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une  modification  dans  la  metho- 
de  normale  de  filmage  sont  indiques  ci-dessous. 

Coloured  pages  /  Pages  de  couleur 

I j    Pages  damaged  I  Pages  endommagees 


□ 

□ 


n 


□ 


Pages  restored  and/or  laminated  / 
Pages  restaurees  et/ou  pelliculees 

Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed  / 
Pages  decolorees,  tachetees  ou  piquees 

Pages  detached  /  Pages  detachees 

Showthrough  /  Transparence 

Quality  of  print  varies  / 
Qualite  inegale  de  I'impression 

Includes  supplementary  material  / 
Comprend  du  materiel  supplementaire 

Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata  slips, 
tissues,  etc.,  have  been  refilmed  to  ensure  the  best 
possible  image  /  Les  pages  totalement  ou 
partiellement  obscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'errata,  une 
pelure,  etc.,  ont  ete  filmees  a  nouveau  de  faijon  a 
obtenir  la  meilleure  image  possible. 

Opposing  pages  with  varying  colouration  or 
discolourations  are  filmed  twice  to  ensure  the  best 
possible  image  /  Les  pages  s'opposant  ayant  des 
colorations  variables  ou  des  decolorations  sont 
filmees  deux  fois  afin  d'obtenir  la  meilleure  image 
possible. 


This   'em  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below  / 

Ce  document  est  filme  au  taux  de  reduction  indique  ci-dessous. 


lOx 


14x 


18x 


22x 


26x 


30x 


12x 


16x 


20x 


24x 


28x 


32x 


The  COPY  filmed  here  has  been  reproduced  thar^ks 
to  the  generosity  of: 


L'exemplaire  film^  fut  reproduit  grace  i  la 
g^n^rositd  de: 


National    Library  of  Canada 


Bibliotheque  Rationale  du  Canada 


The  images  appearing  here  are  the  best  quality 
possible  consideting  the  condition  and  legibility 
of  the  original  copy  and  in  keeping  with  the 
filming  contract  sr   cifications. 


Les  images  suivantes  ont  ixi  reproduites  avec  le 
plus  grand  soin,  compte  tenu  de  la  condition  et 
de  la  nertotA  de  l'exemplaire  film*,  et  en 
conformit*  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 


Original  copies  in  printed  paper  covers  are  filmed 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  on 
the  last  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  Ail 
other  original  copies  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
first  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustrated  impression. 


Les  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  est  imprimie  sont  film^s  en  commencant 
par  le  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
derni4re  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustraiion,  soit  par  le  second 
plat,  selon  le  cas.  Tous  les  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  filmAs  en  commenpant  par  la 
premiere  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impressio  !  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  derniAre  page  qui  comporte  une  telle 
empreinte. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  — ^  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED"), or  the  symbol  V  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  applies. 

Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
'equired   The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparaitra  sur  la 
derniAre  image  de  chaque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symbole  ^*-  signifie  "A  SUIVRE '.  le 
symbole  V  signifie  "FIN". 

Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc..  peuvent  etre 
filmis  ^  des  taux  de  reduction  diff^rents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  etre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  cliche,  il  est  film^  ^  partir 
de  Tangle  sup6rieur  gauche,  de  gauche  i  droite. 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  n^cessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  m^thode. 


1  2  3 


1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

MICROCOPY    RESOIUTION    TEST    CHART 

ANSI  and   ISO  TE5I   CHART  No    2) 


1.0 


ISO    '"•^E 

1^  1^ 


|36 
1*0 


m 

20 
1.8 


1.4 


1.6 


^     ^PPLIE^IK/HGE 

:^^  -        .  ^"-J-'   t-'is'   Ma.r.   street 

Kochester.    New   York         1460q       mca 


("6)  482  -0300 -Phone 


THE  GOLDEN  POPPY 


THE  GOLDEN  POPPY 


A  NOVEL 


HV 


JEFFREY  DEPREND 

Author  of  "Emberg" 


CHICAGO 

J.  W.  WALLACE  &  COMPANY 
1920 

Ail  Rights  Reserved 


4 


PS  8^0:?- 
^59 


fh  J 


Cnfiyrinht.   I'y.'O 
W  .  \\AI.I,A(  E  &  CriMPANY 


fi  Q  n  n  Q.  Q 

^  '   V  -^  \^  \^ 


JEFFREY  DEPRENl) 


i 


The  Golden  Poppy 


CHAPTER  ONE. 


She  gazed  through  the  open  window  of 
the  coach  and  waved  a  small  gloved  hand 
at  the  two  black  figures  standing  apart 
on  the  skirt  of  the  throng. 

Conflicting  emotions  struggled  within 
her. 

The  hour  of  parting  had  come.  The 
rending  asunder  of  girlhood  ties.  The 
long-awaited  freedom  of  young  woman- 
hood. 

The  sisters  were  smiling,  v/istfully,  she 
fho:ight,  and  waving  a  timid  farewell 
with  their  thin,  wax-like  hands.  The 
brass  crucifixes  hanging  from  their  cein- 
tures  seemed  grotesquely  large  and  the 
contrast  between  the  white  linen  of  their 

[9] 


10 


The  Golden  Poppy 


stiff,  starched  bibs  and  the  funereal  black 
of  their  habits  more  pronounced. 

A  whistle  shrieked  nearby  and  a  blind- 
ing belch  of  smoke,  swift  and  ruthless, 
shut  out  the  scene  before  her. 

The  train  made  its  way  over  a  maze  of 
tracks  and,  gathering  speed,  passed  on 
out  through  a  narrow,  tortuous  lane,  into 
the  suburbs  of  the  city. 

She  closed  the  window  and  settled  back 
into  the  hot  upholstered  seat. 

Some  magazines,  which  she  had  pur- 
chased at  the  station  news-stand,  lay  be- 
fore her,  where  the  porter  had  placed 
them,  forgotten  in  the  rush  of  unbidden 
emotions   which  assailed  her. 

A  dove-gray  parasol,  edged  with  a 
heavy  band  of  old  rose,  rested  easily 
across  the  top  of  a  walrus  bag  of  dull 
black,  beside  which  stood  a  large  wicker 
basket  of  assorted  fruits  covered  with  a 
screen  of  red  gauze. 

There  were  some  packages,  besides, 
which  told  plainly  of  a  recent  shopping 
tour  in  the  region  of  the  great  department 


The  Golden  Poppy 


II 


stores  of  the  city.  A  box  of  bonbons  lay, 
alluring,  beside  her,  offering  its  sweets 
for  the  taking. 

But,  her  swirling  thoughts  lifted  her 
far  and  away  from  her  surroundings  and 
bore  her,  in  dream-laden  fancy,  over  a 
panorama  of  pleasing  vistas. 

It  was  June. 

Habitants,  going  about  their  work  in 
the  fields,  turned  their  backs  upon  their 
labors,  to  follow  the  progress  of  the  train 
as  it  rolled  gracefully  over  their  narrow 
stretch  of  vision  into  the  welcoming  por- 
tals of  the  horizon. 

Here  and  there  cattle  raised  their 
thoughtful  heads  from  their  browsing, 
mildly  interested  in  the  passing  scene. 
The  fields  lay  green  and  golden  in  the 
warm  sunlight.  In  the  wheat  fields,  wav- 
ing armies  flashed  their  green  spears 
in  the  blinding  sheen.  From  the  pure, 
unclouded  blue  of  the  sky  a  torrid  heat 
beat  down  upon  the  earth,  which  would 
gladden  the  hearts  of  the  reapers  with 
abundant  yields  at  harvest. 


12 


The  Golden  Poppy 


Now  the  giant  wayfarer  traversed 
yawning-  canons  of  forest.  Now  he 
emerged  again  among  green  and  yellow 
fields  and  grazing  herds. 

Now  he  thundered  over  a  shimmering 
riband  of  brook,  that  flashed  back  to  him 
the  reflection  of  his  graceful  outline.  And 
again  he  rumbled  past  scenes  of  domestic 
happiness. 

Farm  houses,  flanked  by  fruit  or- 
chards, raised  their  red  and  green  roofs 
above  the  plumes  of  blooming  trees,  in 
stately  harmony  with  the  handiv/ork  of 
nature. 

The  girl  gave  little  heed  to  the  unfold- 
ing scene.  She  was  going  home.  The 
first  long  chapter  in  the  book  of  her  life 
had  come  to  an  uneventful  close.  With 
the  opening  of  the  next,  all  the  meagre 
resources  at  her  conmiand  would  be 
needed,  to  guide  her  faltering  steps  over 
spaces  unpathed  and  unknown. 

She  reclined  in  a  dream-haze  against 
the  stuffy  crimson  plush  of  her  seat;  her 


The  Golden  Poppy 


13 


svelt,  well  moulded    ;ody  swaying-  gently 
with  the  movement  of  the  coach. 

Hers  was  the  face  of  a  beautiful  child, 
wondering,  believing.     Large  hazel  eyes 
surmounted  by  daintily  arched  brows  and 
fringed    with    long,    heavy    lashes,    that 
caressed  her  cheeks  when  she  closed  those 
lustrous  orbs.     A  moHth  that  might  have 
been  done  by  a  Rubens,   curved   like   a 
hunter's  bow,  full-lipped  and  bold  and  of 
the    redness    of   carmine.      Ears   of    the 
translucency  of  sea  shells,  as  delicate  as 
rose  petals.    A  nose  Grecian  in  type,  such 
as  might  have  been  Helen's.     A  throat, 
creamy  and  full,  raising  its  white  column 
from  the  depths  of  a  breast  already  well 
rounded  and  matured.    A  wealth  of  gold- 
en hair,  framing  in  the  exquisite  features 
of  the  girl,  like  the  handiwork  of  a  master 
on  some  rare  cameo. 

She  was  aware  of  her  charms  and  rev- 
eled in  her  beauty. 

In  the  convent  she  had  left  behind  to- 
day, which  had  been  her  home  these  seven 
years  and  out  of  which  she  had  passed  to 


1 


14 


The  Golden  Poppy 


take  up  her  place  among  her  people,  the 
sisters  had  many  times  deplored  the  girl's 
vanity  and  pelf-complaisance,  even  going 
so  far  as  to  make  prophecies  of  dire  visita- 
tions from  Heaven  fc"  her  vvorldliness 
and  want  of  Christian  humility. 

The  subject  of  these  remonstrances 
only  laughed  at  the  pious  folk  and  ad- 
mired her  pretty  self  the  more  for  their 
fears. 

The  train  was  leaving  Brosseau,  when 
a  young  man  entered  the  front  door  of 
the  coach  on  his  way  to  the  smoker. 

He  was  of  medium  build  and  stature 
and  of  a  complexion  committed  neither  to 
light  nor  dark. 

The  eyes  were  gray;  the  nose  merely 
accidental.  A  stubby  little  hedge  bristled 
pugnaciously  on  his  upper  lip. 

He  was  neatly  attired  in  grays. 

He  surveyed  the  coach  with  cool  de- 
liberation, until  his  eyes  met  those  of  the 
girl  and  kindled  in  recognition. 

In  a  moment  he  was  standing  before 
her,  hat  in  hand. 


The  Golden  Poppy 


15 


The  girl  appeared  mildly  pleased  at  the 
meeting. 

The  young  man  smiled  politely  and 
spoke  some  little  commonplace.  It  was 
a  great  pleasure,  a  delightful  surprise,  to 
renew,  thus  unexpectedly,  a  cherished  ac- 
quaintance. 

She  blushed  prettily  and  made  room 
for  him  beside  her. 

He  readily  accepted  the  favor. 

There  was  a  moment's  constraint  which 
he  broke  with  : 

"I  believe  this  is  our  first  meeting  since 
May?" 

"Yes,  you  were  at  the  convent  to  see 
your  niece,  Clotilde.  The  little  tease  had 
me  called  to  the  parlor  She  is  forever 
up  to  such  tricks." 

They  laughed  and  he  went  on: 
"Now.  you  must  not  be  too  hard  on  my 
niece,  Miss  Labelle,  for,  the  truth  is,  it 
was  I  who  asked  her  to  send  for  you.  I 
had  seen  you  many  times  in  church.  In- 
deed,   my   devotions   during   those   days 


i6 


The  Gnldcn  Poppy 


would  do  mc  little  credit  with  St.  Peter. 
You  are  goin^  home  for  the  summer?" 

"Yes,  and  the  winter  as  well." 

A  slij^ht  change  came  over  her  features 
;iiid  she  gazed  out  at  the  flf^eing  pano- 
rama of  field  and  forest. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  remember,"  he  rejoined. 
"Clotilde  told  t  le  you  were  in  your  last 
year." 

They  were  silent  for  a  space.  Pres- 
ently he  said: 

"I  am  spending  the  summer  months  at 
St.  John's,  with  my  people.  We  might 
have  many  pleasant  hours  together.  Shall 
I  call?" 

"By  all  means.  Doctor  Randon;  you 
know  where  we  live?" 

"Oh,  yes,  perfectly  well;  I  have  known 
the  place  since  childhoi  d — ahhough — I 
had  never  met  its  most  lo\  ^ly  tenant." 

"Flatterer!" 

"I  mean  it,"  he  laughed.  Then:  "I 
must  see  to  my  luggage.  I  shall  be  over. 
Good-bye,  Miss  Labelle." 

She  put  out  a  dainty  hand :   "Au  revoir. 


The  Golden  Poppy 


Doctor  Randon,"  she  said,  with  her  sweet- 
est v.iile. 

They  were  at  St.  John's. 

The  next  stop  would  be  Lamartinette, 
on  the  other  side  of  the  RicheHeu.  And 
Lamartinette  was  home. 

There  would  be  someone  at  the  station 
to  meet  her.     Pierre,  most  likely. 

It  was  but  a  five  minutes'  ride  across 
the  river. 

She  gazed  out  with  a  thrill  of  gladness 
upon  the  majestic  stream,  which  she  had 
watched  ofttimes  as  a  child. 

It  was  still  rushing  onward  to  the  hun- 
gry sea,  never  returning;  still  hurrying 
past  the  simple  scenes,  in  its  maddenin? 
quest  for  the  great  waters,  never  hoping 
again  to  kiss  these  fertile  shores. 

A  white  sail  glimmered  on  the  blue 
surface  in  the  distance.  Canoes  dotted 
the  water  here  and  there.  Men  and  boys 
squatted  indolently  along  the  shores,  fish- 
ing. The  church  spires  of  the  village 
shone  like  silver  minarets  in  the  blinding 
sunlight. 


i8 


The  (inldcn   I'oppy 


Tliese  were  tlie  scenes  she  had  known 
as  a  child. 

They  seemed  far  removed  from  her 
now,  hke  the  faces  of  a  half-forgotten 
dream. 

She  drew  herself  to  her  feet,  perturhed. 

It  all  seemed  quite  flat  and  tasteless, 
now. 

The  porter  came  for  her  luggage. 

Mechanically,  she  followed  him  to  the 
vestibule  and  down  the  steps  to  the  sta- 
tion platform. 

Village  idlers  stood  about  in  little 
knots,  gaping. 

Pierre,  his  lean,  brown  face  alight  with 
welcome,  was  there  to  greet  her.  He  wns 
the  adopted  son  of  her  mother's  only 
brother,  and  had  been  raised  with  Isabelle 
after  the  death  of  Jules  Duval. 

He  had  donned  his  best  suit  for  the 
occasion — a  stifif.  funereal  garb  of  black, 
which  had  been  pressed  until  the  creases 
stood  out  like  welts  against  the  fabric. 
A  ready-made  cravat  of  vivid  blue  ap- 
peared to  have  been  flattened  against  the 


The  Golden  i'oppy 


19 


starched  bosom  of  his  shirt  and  pasted 
there.  A  narrow  uliite  band  of  collar 
did  httle  to  conceal  the  hirsute  column  of 
neck.  His  i^reat,  powerful  hands  dan- 
gled like  jjendulums  from  the  too  short 
sleeves  of  his  coat,  fie  wore  new  patent 
leather  shoes,  which  seemed  to  increase 
the  size  of  his  feet. 

As  he  strode  forward  to  meet  her,  his 
hand  went  hesitatingly  to  his  straw  sailor 
hat,  revealing  a  shaggy  mane  of  blue- 
black  hair. 

He  appeared  at  a  loss  for  words.  But 
his  face  shone  with  the  joy  of  a  child. 

"Isabelle!"  he  exclaimed  softly,  for  one 
of  his  brawn  and  stature.  And  in  that 
word  he  found  expression  for  his  glad- 
ness, for  he  said  no  more ;  but  busied  him- 
self with  her  luggage. 

The  road  from  the  station  to  the  home 
of  Philipe  Labclle  wound  lazily  in  a  wide 
circle  around  the  village.  Wild  clover 
and  goldenrod  mingled  their  white  and 
yellow  blossoms  in  riotous  profusion 
along  the  way.     The  elderberry  reveled 


20 


'ihc   Linldcu    I'oppy 


in  the  sun  hcside  the  ohokc-chcrry  trees 
and  liazel  hushes.  Daisies  nodded  de- 
murely in  the  meadows.  In  the  fields, 
where  the  coming-  harvest  was  now  the 
rich  brown  of  bakers'  loaves,  bobolinks 
waxed  garrulous,  their  trim  bodies  sway- 
ing rhythmically  on  tin-  golden  shafts  of 
ripening  grain.  An  indolent  chorus  of 
song  rose  dreamily  from  the  earth,  where 
grasshojjpers  lived  their  short  day  in  the 
abundance  of  Summer's  gifts,  well  con- 
tent to  leave  to-morrow  to  its  own  device. 
They  had  rounded  a  curve  in  the  high- 
way and  were  at  the  foot  of  a  long,  grad- 
ual slope,  when  the  homestead  flaunted  its 
bold  white-columned  facade  from  amidst 
its  surrounding  framework  of  pines  and 
maples. 

The  house,  of  stately  proportions,  was 
white,  with  green  roof  and  shutters.  A 
broad  veranda  circled  the  front  and 
sides  of  the  structure.  The  barns  and 
stables  stood  off  some  five  hundred  yards 
in  the  rear  of  the  house,  mute  sentinels 


Tlic  iJohlcn  I'opf^x 


31 


of  the  tlirift  and  enterprise  of  the  hus- 
bandman wliose  abode  was  here. 

The  girl  straightened  in  her  seat  as  the 
famih'ar  scene  revealed  iiself  to  her  eyes. 
"Home,  Pierre,!"  she  sighed. 
"Yes,  yes,  home.  Isabelle,"  laughed  the 
big  fellow,     "^'ou  are  glad,  eh?" 

'"Glad  that  I  am  home?  Oh,  surely, 
Pierre.  blveryone  is  glad  to  come 
home.  Home  is  the  beginning  and  the 
end.  .Ml,  tlierc  i>  [-"aiher.  .\nd  Alamman. 
coming  from  her  flower  garden.  Noth- 
ing has  changed,  l^verything  looks  the 
same  as  when  I  was  home  last.  It  will 
seem  lonely  for  a  while.  But,  you  will 
take  me  for  many  rides  in  the  country, 
will  you  not,  Pierre?" 

"Well,  well.  1  thought  you  were  never 
coming,"  rumbled  a  voice  close  at  hand 
and  the  huge  form  of  Philipe  Labelle 
bounded  lithely  fmm  behind  a  fringe  of 
willows,  which  bordered  the  driveway,  to 
the  side  of  the  slowly  moving-  car 

Isabelle  alighted  and  kissed  her  father, 
who  crushed  the  soft,  pliant  form  rudely 


22 


The  Golden  Poppy 


to  his  breast  and  swept  her  exquisite 
mouth  and  cheeks  with  a  coarse  black 
brush  of  beard. 

Isabelle  hastened  toward  the  house  to 
greet  her  mother,  who  was  approaching 
with  an  armful  of  roses. 

Mrs.  Labelle  was  a  faded  little  woman, 
with  thoughtful,  saddened  eyes  and  yel- 
lowish hair  now  streaking  into  gray.  Her 
face  was  expressive  of  helpless  resigna- 
tion to  the  futility  of  hope,  to  the  empti- 
ness of  human  joys. 

Isabelle  kissed  her  motl.or  and  encjuired 
about  her  health.  Mrs.  Labelle  smiled  a 
brave  reply  and  murmured  a  protest 
against  the  excessive  heat.  The  men  were 
approaching  now  with  the  girl's  luggage. 
Pierre  opened  the  parasol  and  held  it  out 
to  Isabelle. 

"A  storm  is  coming,"  said  Philipe, 
pointing  to  the  western  sky,  w^here  an 
ominous  stretch  of  cloud  loomed  blackish, 
threaded  with  dancing  streaks  of  fire.  A 
cool  breeze  rustled  the  grasses  at  their 
feet.     Somewhere,   i  door  slammed  loudlv. 


The  Golden  Pop,y 


23 


Tlicy  moved  across  the  lawn  and  passed 
into  the  house.  The  darkened  rooms 
were  cool  and  the  risin.s^  wind  swept 
grateful  trusts  thr()u,a:h  the  open  doors 
and  windows. 

Mrs.  Labelle  arranj^ed  her  floM-rs  on 
the  dining-room  table  and  set  about  to 
lay  meat  for  the  returning  child,  explain- 
ing that  Ernestine,  the  maid  of  all  work, 
had  gone  to  a  picnic  at  High  Gate 
Springs. 

She  placed  a  cold  chicken  on  the  snow- 
white  cloth  and  fetched  a  pitcher  of  cream 
from  the  dairy.  A  pot  of  coffee  followed 
in  turn,  flanked  by  newly  churned  buttc 
and  an  imposing  round  loaf  of  home-made 
bread.  A  deep  d'  h  of  raspberries  came 
next,  their  black  eyes  peeping  through  a 
snowfall  of  powdered  sugar. 

While  these  preparations  were  under 
way,  Isabelle  repaired  to  her  room  to 
change  her  clothing  and  remove  the  dust 
of  travel. 

She  reappeared  a  few  minutes  later  in 
a  pale  blue  dressing-gown  of  crepe-like 


24 


The  Gnldcn  Poppy 


texture,  which  revealed  the  clas.,.c  column 
of  her  full,  satiny  throat. 

IJer  little  feet  were  encased  in  dainty 
slippers  of  black  kid  and  her  hair  was 
(lone  in  a  luxuriant  coil  over  the  back  of 
Her  shapely  head  and  neck. 

She  appeared  refreshed  from  her  ablu- 
tions. A  soft  tinp^e  of  color  had  stolen 
over  the  paleness  of  her  cheeks. 

She  ate  heartily,  like  the  healthy  creat- 
ure that  she  was,  chatting  animatedly  the 
while  with  her  mother,  who  had  taken  a 
seat  across  the  table. 

The  men  had  gone  out,  presumably  to 
their  work  about  the  farm. 

"It  will  be  nice  to  have  you  home,  Isa- 
belle,"  said  Mamman  Labelle.  "It  has 
been  so  very  lonesome  of  late." 

There  was  a  pause  and  she  spoke  again : 

"You  are  going  to  stay  at  home,  of 
course?" 

"Really,  mother,  I  have  thought  very 
little  about  it;  but,  I  can  understand  your 
being  lonely  here." 

"They  say,  Isabelle,  that  one  becomes 


The  Golden  Poppx 


25 


inured  to  dungeons.  I  have  read  so  in 
books.  I  believe  it  is  true.  I  think  it  has 
been  the  case  with  me — here — all  these 
years." 

She  sighed  audibly  and  drew  her  little 
white  shawl  more  closely  about  her  shoul- 
ders. 

The  storm  broke  at  last  and  drenched 
the  earth  with  a  warm,  be  jficent  rain. 
Then,  the  wind  died  down  to  a  caress, 
swishing  softly  among  the  dripping  leaves 
and  grasses.  The  sun  burst  forth  in  fiery 
splendor,  over  a  ragged  battlement  of 
cloud.  Farmyard  fowls  quitted  the  shel- 
ter of  the  barns  to  forage  in  fields  of 
plenty.  Isabelle,  emerging  from  the 
house,  stepped  down  onto  the  smooth 
gravel  path  and  followed  its  winding 
cor.rse  around  the  house  to  the  orchard 
and  garden  overlooking  the  sloping  pas- 
ture lands  of  her  father. 

Far  over  the  valley  the  velvet  green  of 
the  earth  was  dotted  with  the  red  and 
white  of  grazing  herds. 

Isabelle    surveyed    the    peaceful    scene 


26 


The  Golden  Poppy 


before  her,  a  prey  to  the  surging  memo- 
ries of  her  childhood.  It  was  here  that 
she  had  hved  her  earher  years,  in  this 
house  of  cloud  and  shadow,  grim  battle- 
ground of  silences,  where  intercourse  be- 
tween the  parent  Labelles  had  been  limit- 
ed, as  far  back  as  she  could  remember,  to 
curt  exchanges  of  words  indispensable  to 
the  routine  of  the  household. 

Nearby  stood  the  slender  oak  sapling 
which  she  had  planted  on  her  ninth  birth- 
day. Some  future  generation,  now  far 
distant,  would  view  the  grandeur  of  its 
full  estate.  She  would  have  long  since 
departed  the  scene.  She  pondered  the 
fleeting  quality  of  human  life  and  shud- 
dered inwardly  at  the  evanescence  of 
youth  and  of  the  charms  of  its  short  days. 

Perched  c  a  fence-post,  midway  be- 
tween the  garden  and  the  barns,  a  guinea 
cock  called  to  his  mate,  hatching  her 
brood  somewhere  in  the  seclusion  of  the 
harvest  fields.  Pigeons  strutted  about  in 
scattered  flocks,  gleaning.  She  saw  her 
fathei,  followed  by  Pierre,  emerge  from 


The  Golden  Poppy 


27 


the  stables  and  cross  r;ver  to  the  sheep- 
pens.  They  would  soon  be  cominj^  in ;  for 
the  round  red  sun  had  descended  to  the 
distant  hill-tops;  and  the  day  was  done. 
She  retraced  her  steps  to  the  house  and 
went  to  her  room. 

She  wished  to  be  alone. 

Her  mother  called  her  for  the  evening 
meal. 

But  she  did  not  go  down  to  supper. 

Instead,  she  drew  a  large,  oaken  rocker 
to  the  open  window  and  watched  the 
purpling  twilight  steal  over  the  hills  and 
down  into  the  valleys.  By  and  by  the 
stars  came  out  and  a  silver  crescent  of 
moon  hung  from  the  limb  of  a  tall  tree  on 
the  peak  of  a  distant  spur.  From  the 
creek,  hard  by,  rose  an  exultant  chorus  of 
frogs.  And  on  the  crooning  breeze  were 
wafted  in  to  her  the  mingling  perfumes 
of  the  coming  harvest.  Isabelle  heard  her 
mother  mount  the  stairs  to  her  room.  She 
heard  the  metallic  click  of  the  key  as  Mrs. 
Labelle  locked  her  chamber  door.  From 
below  came  the  loud,  strident  voice  of  the 


28 


The  Golden  Poppy 


father,  in  debate  with  the  mild-mannered 
Pierre.  They,  too,  would  soon  lumber  off 
to  their  beds,  to  be  up  and  doing-  again  at 
blush  of  dawn.  .V  feeling  of  revulsion 
swe])t  over  her.  She  was  aiii)alled  by  the 
loneliness  of  this  hum-drum,  workaday 
life. 

It  was  late  when  Ernestine  came  home 
from  the  picnic.  And  u  was  long  after 
the  dead  hush  of  night  had  settled  over 
the  house  wh.en  Isabelle  rose  from  her 
seat  by  the  window  and  sought  the  solace 
of  sleep. 

She  awoke  to  the  songs  of  birds,  burst- 
ing in  joyously  through  the  o'.  en  windows 
of  the  spacious  bedroom.  The  faint  per- 
fume of  wild  flowers  and  grasses  thrilled 
her. 

She  pushed  down  the  covers  with  her 
feet. 

Her  white  hands  met  over  her  tumbling 
tresses,  revealing  plump,  snowy  arms. 
She  lay  luxuriously  upon  her  back,  her 
wonderful  eyes  fixed  abstractedly  on  the 
gilt  crucifix  at  the  foot  of  the  bed. 


The  Golden  Poppy 


29 


A  dog  bayed  in  the  distance.  She  sat 
up  regretfully  on  the  edge  of  the  bed. 

Then,  she  crossed  the  room,  to  view 
the  landscape. 

Winding  around  the  lane  that  led  to 
the  pasture,  she  saw  a  long,  lagging  pro- 
cession of  cows,  urged  by  a  shaggy  dog, 
wending  toward  the  barns.  Pierre  was 
letting  down  the  bars.  The  patient  crea- 
tures mooed  softly  as  they  came  within 
sight  of  their  keeper.  One  by  one  they 
passed  into  the  barnyard  and  disappeared. 
Pierre,  taking  up  the  milk  pails,  plodded 
after. 

"Poor  Pierre!"  she  commiserated,  in  an 
under-tone. 

Then,  the  after-thought  : 

"T  might  have  been  like  him.  My  lot 
would  have  been  the  same  as  his,  had  I 
remained  here,  content  with  the  life  of 
the  farm.  But  no,  I  never  liked  it.  The 
drudgery  of  such  an  existence  frightened 
me,  even  as  a  child.    I  abhor  it." 

A  little  to  the  south,  slowly  detaching 
himself  from  the  green  framework  of  the 


3" 


The  GoUicn  I'oppy 


orchard,  was  her  father's  ne'er-do-well 
brother,  her  Uncle  Nazaire,  a  scythe  over 
his  shoulder,  i)lo(ldin<T  his  way  afield. 

He  was  a  short  stoutly  built  man,  with 
a  purplish,  bulbous  nose  and  eyes  that 
strained  in  their  sockets  beneath  a  narrow 
band  of  bulp^inj^  brow.  His  mouth  was 
thick-lipped  and  g^ash-like;  and  enormous 
ears  stood  out  and  away  from  the  closely- 
cropped,  eg-i2:-shaped  head.  The  chin  fell 
away  abruptly,  without  coming  to  a  point ; 
and  the  short,  fat  neck  gave  eloquent 
promise  of  a  sudden  end. 

Together  with  his  wife,  Philomene,  he 
lived  in  a  cottage  on  the  far  edge  of  his 
liroiher's  faini.  J^hilomene  did  plain  sew- 
ing for  the  women  of  Lamartinette  and 
Xazaire  contributed  to  the  menage  from 
the  proceeds  of  his  labors  on  the  thriving 
acres  of  Philippe  Labelle. 

Isabelle,  now,  as  many  times  in  the 
past,  felt  an  instinctive  dislike  for  this  man 
of  her  own  bl.  xl. 

And  when  Na.7aire,  moved  by  some 
mental  process  of  his  ovn,  turned  sud- 


The  Golden  Poppy 


31 


denly  in  his  tracks  and  gazed  up  at  her 
window,  the  girl  drew  tlic  curtain  hastily 
and  retreated,  strangely  perturbed. 

She  crossed  over  to  the  ancient  dresser 
of  black  walnut  and  stood  before  the  long 
swinging  nn'rror,  the  same  that  had  re- 
vealed her  child  image  to  her,  years  ago. 

She  smiled  her  satisfaction  at  the  re- 
flection in  the  glass;  and  turned  to  her 
toilet.  She  had  finished  dressing,  when 
her  mother,  thinking  Isabelle  was  still 
asleep,  opened  the  door  softly  and  entered 
the  room. 

"Good    morning,    cherie,"    she    said; 

"have  you  rested  well?" 

"Oh,  yes,  mother,  T  slept  like  a  top." 
"I  thought  I  would  see  if  you  were  still 

asleep.     The  men  have  eaten  and  gone; 

we  shall  breakfast  together." 

She  turned  to  the  open  window  and 
went  on  : 

"What  a  beautiful  scene!  I  have  al- 
ways admired  it  so:  the  valley,  the  hills, 
the  blue,  far-away  land  touching  the  sky." 


-  r. 


32 


The  Golden  Poppy 


The  ^nrl's  arm  stoic  about  the  little 
form. 

"Miimzic,"  siie  said,  "why  is  it  that 
far-away  thiiii^^s  always  seem  more  attrac- 
tive— more  to  be  desired?" 

"I  suppose  it  is  because  we  are  not  near 
enough  to  see  their  flaws,  my  cliild.  I 
have  sometimes  thought  that  if  wives 
could  see  their  husbands  but  once  or  twice 
each  year,  the  great  institution  of  mar- 
riage might  be  accounted  an  unfailing 
success.  The  women  would  have  neither 
the  tinie  nor  the  disposition  to  see  the 
flaws  in  their  mates." 

The  girl  laughed  outright. 

"But,  surely  you  are  not  in  earnest, 
Mumzie,"  she  rejoined.  "Such  a  life 
would  be  intolerable — to  me  at  least.  I 
shall  want  my  husband  with  me  always." 

"Then,  make  sure  you  are  both  devoted 
lovers,  my  child,  before  taking  the  final 
step,  for  where  there  is  mutual  love  the 
flaws  are  not  seen." 

"So  much  for  the  men,  little  mother; 


The  (loldcn  Poppy 


?>?> 


but   what  of   tlie   wives:   have   they  not 
flaws  as  well?" 

*'Ves,  indeed,  fully  as  many;  hut  the 
average  man  seeks  diversion  away  from 
home.  He  refuses  to  be  too  strongly 
bound;  he  is  over-liberal  in  the  interpre- 
tation of  the  marriage  vow  as  it  affects 
him.  And  society  sanctions  and  upholds 
his  breaches  of  the  vow.  In  other  v/ords, 
it  seems  to  be  the  common  view  that  fidel- 
ity is  a  beautiful  virtue — in  the  wives. 
But,  come,  dear,  you  must  be  hungry.  I 
shall  tell  Ernestine  you  are  up." 

She   laughed    wryly,    and    by    way    of 
after-thought,  added: 

"As  for  husbands  and  wives,  my  dear 
child,  you  must  not  let  that  occupy  your 
thoughts.  Time  and  fate  will  adjust  your 
fortunes.  You,  yourself,  could  never  hope 
to  fashion  the  mould  of  your  future  life. 
If  this  were  possible,  there  would  be  no 
unhappiness  in  the  world.  And  then,  we 
would  all  be  in  Heaven  before  our  time, 
thus  cheating  the  good  old  St.  Peter  of  all 
the  surprises  he  holds  in  store  for  us." 


34 


The  Golden   Poppy 


"1  shall  treat  it  as  a  closed  book,  Mum- 
;:ie  dear,"  said  IsabcUe,  "until  the  proper 
time." 

And   together   they  passed  out   of  the 

room. 


CriAPTlCR  TWO. 

David  Randon  drove  over  to  the 
^abi'lle  homestead  a  few  days  after  his 
meeting  with  Isabelle. 

It  was  Sunday.  A  dehghtful  breeze 
cooled  the  ardor  of  th'-  sim.  The  quiet  of 
the  day  lay  drowsily  over  the  countryside. 

Randon  alighted  from  his  car  in  the 
driveway  and  advanced  to  the  veranda, 
where  Philippe  Labelle  was  smoking  an 
after-dinner  pipe.  He  bowed  pleasantly 
and  asked  for  Miss  Labelle. 

The  farmer  eyed  Randon  with  a  swift, 
sweeping  glance.  Mask-like,  his  swarthy, 
bearded  face  remained  non-committal.  "I 
shall  call  her,"  he  said.  "Be  seated,  Mon- 
sieur." 

He  found  Isabelle  in  ihe  kitchen,  with 
her  mother  and  Ernestine. 

[35] 


it 


36 


The  Golden  Poppy 


"There  is  someone  to  see  you,  Isabelle," 
he  said.  "I  think  it's  that  young  Ranclon, 
from  St.  John's.     Do  you  kno.v  him?" 

"Yes — through  his  niece,  at  the  con- 
vent.   He  said  he  was  going  to  call." 

Labelle  was  about  to  speak  again ;  but 
thought  better  of  it.  Turning  on  his  heel, 
he  relighted  his  pipe  and  tamped  tiie 
dottle.  Then  be  strode  out  of  the  house 
and  made  his  way  slowly  towards  the 
barns. 

Isabelle  removed  her  apron. 

"How  do  I  look?"  she  asked.  She  was 
smiling.  Her  eyes  danced  with  pleasur- 
able excitement.  A  healthy  glow  flushed 
her  cheeks  to  the  tinge  of  rose  petals. 

The  others,  turning  from  the  steaming 
dishes,  surveyed  her  critically  and  spoke 
their  approval.  She  disappeared  through 
the  swinging  door  and  a  moment  later 
came  out  onto  the  veranda,  her  hands  out- 
stretched to  Randon  in  honest  welcome. 

"I  have  been  expecting  you,"  she  told 
him,  without  preamble.  "Won't  you  come 
m?    It  is  cooler  inside." 


The  Golden  Poppy 


Z7 


She  drew  open  the  door  and  they 
passed  into  the  parlor,  a  square,  spacious 
room  immediately  off  the  front  entrance. 
Isabelle  raised  the  shades,  relieving  the 
semi-darkness  of  the  apartment.  Then, 
she  seated  herself  before  him  and  smiled 
her  pleasure  at  his  being  there.  He,  too, 
was  well  pleased  with  >he  moment.  He 
gazed  at  the  young,  healthy  creature  be- 
fore him  without  any  attempt  at  conceal- 
ment.    Randon  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"I  have  come  to  take  you  for  a  ride. 
You  are  at  liberty?" 

"Yes.  It  will  be  very  nice,  a  drive  into 
the  country.  I  shall  tell  Mother  and  get 
a  wrap." 

^n  her  room,  Isabelle  chose  a  long, 
loose-fitting  coat  of  light  texture.  With 
a  deft  touch  or  two,  she  adjusted  a  rebel- 
lious wisp  of  hair.  A  glance  in  the  mirror 
evok/^^  a  .smile  of  satisfaction.  She  picked 
up  '  .ded  reticule  on  the  dresser,  and 
went  iHAvn  to  meet  him.  At  the  foot  of 
the  stairway  she  met  her  mother,  emerg- 
ing from  the  dining-room. 


38 


The  Golden  Poppy 


She  took  her  by  the  arm. 

"Come,  Mumzie,"  she  said.  "I  want 
you  to  see  my  beau." 

She  laughed  softly  and  drew  the  un- 
willing woman  gently  to  the  parlor. 

"What  a  child  it  is!"  Mrs.  Labelle  was 
saying  as  the  door  opened. 

Randon  arose  from  his  seat  by  the  win- 
dow as  the  women  entered.  Mrs.  Labelle 
greeted  the  guest  warmly  and  told  him 
he  iv.ust  feel  cjuite  free  to  call  "sans  cere- 
nionie,"  as  long  as  he  remained  in  the 
good  graces  of  her  Isabelle.  They  all 
laughed  and  Randon  asked: 

"Is  it  as  bad  as  all  that,  Mrs.  Labelle? 
Can  it  be  the  lady  is  fickle?" 

"She  used  to  be — with  her  dolls  and 
her  playthings.  Oh.  dear,  I  had  such  a 
time  of  it,  keeping  her  amused!  But, 
there,  I  was  thinking  her  still  a  child.  It 
seems  but  yesterday,  you  see.  that  she  was 
a  little  thing  in  curls  and  short  dresses." 

Her  mood  passed  presently;  and  she 
left  them,  with  a  parting  smile  and  an  "au 
revoir." 


The  Golden  Poppy 


39 


They  were  on  the  main  road  when  Ran- 
don  said: 

"Where  shall  we  go?     To  Chambly?" 
"Oh,   yes,    Chambly   by   all   means.      I 

haven't  been   there  since   I   was  a   little 

girl." 

"That  was  but  yesterday,"  he  smiled. 

"Ves — Mother  does  .seem  to  think  I 
am  still  a  little  girl.  And  yet,  I  can  under- 
stand her.  It  seems  so  short  a  while  to 
me,  too,  since  I  played  witii  my  dolls  and 
waited  longingly  for  Santa  Claus.  I  won- 
der if  we  rush  on  so  rapidly  to  old  age?" 

"More  so,  they  say.  I  have  heard  that 
after  you  have  passed  the  fortieth  mile- 
stone, the  descent  seems  almost  perpen- 
dicular." 

"Oh!"  she  shuddered,  "how  realistic! 
One  would  think  you  were  selling  tobog- 
gans." 

"Now  that  you  mention  it,"  he  re- 
joined, "life  and  toboggans  are  not  with- 
out a  degree  of  similarity :  In  both  cases 
much  effort  is  wasted  to  little  end.    What 


40 


77/ r  ( J  olden   Poppx 


a  <^looniy  subject."  lie  broke  off,  "for  such 
a  day!" 

"Yes,  indeed,"  she  bantered.  "Let  us 
laugh  while  there  is  still  time." 

On  the  crest  of  a  lonely  plateau,  a  mile 
or  so  from  the  house,  a  tall,  straight  fig- 
ure stood  watching  the  car  as  it  rolled 
away  towards  the  village. 

It  was  Pierre. 


CHAPTER  THREE. 

They  had  crossed  the  old  white  bridge 
that  spanned  the  RicheHeii  and  had  left 
St.  John's  far  behind.     The  road  lay  be- 
neath a  thick,  velvet  pall  of  dust,  that  rose 
in    a    swirling-    cloud    of    gray,    as    they 
passed.     The  banks  and  ditches  along  the 
highway  were  massed  with  a  profusion  of 
wild  bloom,  from  the  shimmering  gold  of 
buttercups  to  the  ivory  white  of  spreading 
elders.     Through  the  green  lace-woik  of 
foliage  they  caught  swift-flashing  gleams 
of  the  sun-silvered   Richelieu.     The  sky 
was  verv  clear  and  blue.     It  arched  high 
above,  in  a  translucent  dome,  untouched 
by  a  wave  of  varying  hue.     Nor  did  it 
have  the  seeming  of  the  abode  of  storms 
and  wrath,  black  and  frightful,  w^hich  oft- 
times    thundered    over    the   valley    when 
night  had  come 

[41] 


f> 


42 


The  Golden  Poppy 


They  arrived  at  Chambly  as  the  vesper 
bells  were  callinsr  the  faithful  to  worship. 

The  quaint  little  town  nestled,  cool  and 
tranquil,  in  the  shade  of  oaks  and  maples. 

Gay  little  .c^roups  of  habitants  stood 
about,  chattin*^:  in  their  gala  attire  of 
Diinanche. 

Dimanche  was  a  great  day  for  these 
sim])le  folk. 

It  was  Sunday — the  day  of  the  week 
which  called  them  together  for  spiritual 
uplift;  and  which  also  served  to  stimulate 
the  inner  man  and  prepare  him  for 
greater  feats  of  wood-cutting  on  the 
morrow. 

For,  they  were  great  bucherons — men 
who,  with  mighty  strokes  of  their  axes, 
hewed  their  way  through  the  great  for- 
ests, felling  he  kings  of  the  wild.  From 
the  blush  of  dawn  until  the  coppered  cre- 
puscle  made  aim.  unsure,  you  could  hear 
the  echoing  chorus  of  steel  on  wood,  brok- 
en anon  by  the  crashing  fall  of  a  wounded 
monarch. 

A  life  surely  worth  the  living.     Care- 


The  Golden  Popp\ 


43 


free;  and,  thonr^h  humble  in  its  simplicity, 
yet  tlowint^  wilh  a  pride  of  physical  prow- 
ess unknown  to  dwellers  of  the  city. 

A  meagre  line  of  villagers  threaded 
slowly  over  the  tree-arched  street  towards 
the  throbbing  church  spire.  Randon  came 
to  a  stop  in  front  of  the  gray  wooden 
structure. 

"Shall  we  go  in?"  he  asked. 
"Why,  yes,  if  you  care  to,"  she  replied, 
suppressing  an  impulse  of  dissent. 

She  was  not  of  a  devotional  nature; 
and  the  symbols  of  creed  and  dogma  were 
accepted  by  her  with  indifference,  much 
the  same  as  the  dinner  bell  on  her  father's 
farm,  the  falling  of  the  leaves  in  Autumn, 
or  the  patter  of  rain  on  the  roof. 

A  few  taper  flames  trembled  on  either 
side  of  the  altar,  like  little  tongues  of 
fire,  in  the  breeze  from  the  open  windows. 
An  old  priest,  in  biretta  and  vestments, 
officiated,  assisted  by  altar  boys  wearing 
surplice  and  cassock. 

They  left  after  the  benediction  and  re- 
turned to  Lamartinette  by  way  of  a  wide 


44 


77;t'  Ciohlcn  l^oppy 


detour,  reachinjr  the  Labelle  homestead 
after  dark.  The  nij;ht  was  beautiful,  cool 
and  clear  and  spanj^led  with  many  stars, 
{•"rom  the  fields  along  the  way  rose  an  in- 
cessant chorus  of  song,  where  katydids 
and  crickets  chanted  of  their  blissful  hour. 
Frogs  trilled  exultantly  on  the  banks  of 
moon-silvered  brooks;  and  from  the 
boughs  of  friendly  oaks  owls  croaked 
sagely  to  their  brood.  The  witchery  of 
night  lay  like  a  spell  over  the  land.  The 
eardi  throbbed  with  gladness. 

Isabelle  was  strangely  moved. 

They  parted  at  the  end  of  the  gravel 
path  that  led  from  the  driveway  to  the 
house. 

Randon  promised  to  call  again  soon; 
and,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  was  gone. 

Isabelle  watched  the  car  roll  awav  into 
the  darkness.  Then  she  turned  her  steps 
towards  the  house. 

As  she  mounted  the  steps  of  the  veran- 
da. Labelle's  great  bulk  loomed  black  in 
the  shadows.  He  had  been  dozing,  he 
said.     How  late  was  it? 


The  Golden  Popp\ 


45 


About  ten  o'clock,  she  told  him. 
"You  must  be  careful,  my  girl.  This 
is  not  the  city.  People  talk.  If  this  fel- 
low Randon  thinks  well  of  you,  it  is 
strange  he  keeps  you  out  so  late.  What 
does  he  want,  anyhow?" 

"W'liy,  at  this  moment,  Father,  I  do  not 
know.  But,  if  there  is  anything  he  does 
wsnt,  he  will,  in  all  probability,  ask  for  it. 
And  when  that  comes  to  pass,  I  shall  con- 
sider it  my  duty  to  tell  you,  if  I  decide  to 
grant  his  request.  And  now,"  she 
laughed,  "I  am  going  to  bed.  I  know  I 
shall  sleep  well,  for  I  am  tired.  Good 
night,  Father." 

"Just  the  same,  you  will  do  well  to 
guard  your  good  name  in  Lamartinette. 
you  hear  that?" 

Isabelle  turned  back  out  of  the  door- 
way to  face  him. 

"Surely,"  she  said,  "no  harm  could  be 
made  of  my  staying  out  until  ten  o'clock 
with  a  young  man." 

"Maybe  so.  But,  I  am  older  than  you. 
I  know  a    few  things  about   life,   about 


4f> 


The  Golden  I'oppy 


people.  The  time  tor  you  to  use  your 
head  is  now;  not  afterwarfls.  wlien  the 
tons^ues  are  waj^s^in^j:.  If  your  mother 
had  any  sense,  she  would  have  told  you 
this  before  toniijht.  Xow,  ^o  to  bed.  I 
am  tired,  myself.  15ut,  I  wanted  to  see 
you  and  tell  you  this." 

He  brushed  past  her  without  waiting 
for  her  to  speak,  and  went  ofT  to  his  room. 

Isabelle  was  perple.xed  by  her  father's 
speech.  If  people  must  talk,  why,  then, 
they  would  talk  and  nothing  could  stop 
them.  But,  she  had  certainly  done  noth- 
ing to  cause  them  uneasiness.  Witn  a 
toss  of  her  pretty  head,  she  dismissed  the 
matter  from  her  mind,  and  went  to  bed. 
She  was  soon  asleep. 


CHAPTKR  FOUR. 


Rnndon  now  became  a  frequent  visitor 
at  the  home  of  Phihppe  Lahelle. 

After    his    warning    to    Isabelle,    the 
father  had  lapsed  into  a  mood  of  stubborn 
silence.     Quite  as  suddenly  as  he  had  ac- 
quired it.  he  appeared  to  have  lost  interest 
m  her  good  name  before  the  little  world  of 
Lamartinette.      He  spoke  rarely  to  Mrs. 
Labclle;  and  exchanged  but  the  briefest 
courtesies  with  his  daughter. 
Ernestine  was  more  favored. 
A  smile,  a  pleasant  word  now  and  then ; 
and,  if  he  happened  to  f^nd  her  al^ne,  a 
great  brown  hand  laid  gently  upon  her 
shoulder  while  his  black,  hungering  eyes 
sought  a  responsive  gleam  in  hers. 

"Some  day,"  he  would  say  to  himself, 
grimly  prophetic,   after   such   a   moment 

1*7] 


48 


The  Cj olden   i'l'f'py 


with  her,  "some  clay,  if  all  went  well.  Ah, 
she  was  a  woman  wortli  while,  that  little 
l''.nK'--niu' !" 

The  married  life  of  the  i.ahelles  had 
long^  since  g'one  awry. 

PhiHl)[)e  had  p^rown  to  manhood  an  un- 
blemished product  of  his  sires,  coarse  of 
speech,  crafty  in  his  dcalint^s  with  men, 
vinrlictive  to  tiie  point  of  ti  achcry  if 
need  be. 

He  had  seen  in  a  unioi  with  Marie 
Duval  an  opportunity  to  acquire,  in  one 
stroke,  the  large  and  well  stocked  farm 
which  the  orphan  girl  had  inherited  from 
her  parents. 

Strangely  enough,  the  gossips  mused, 
the  lonely  maid  had  smiled  upon  his  suit. 

There  came  a  day  when  the  wedding 
bells  rang  out  as  gladly  as  ever  they  had 
pealed  before. 

For  what  recks  a  wedding  bell  of  mor- 
rows ? 

From  the  village  church,  the  blessing 
of  the  Cure  still  upon  them,  they  drove  out 


The   Cnliicfi    ^opf^y 


49 


to  the  farm — her  farm ;  for  the  groom 
was  thrice  blessed  with  poverty. 

Here  they  took  up  their  abode,  which 
sf)on  l)ecanic  the  tenement  of  discord. 

A  child  was  born.  A  dauc^hter.  Again 
they  journeyed  tc  the  church,  and  named 
her  Tsabelle. 

The  gossips  would  have  it  that  the  little 
one  nuist,  by  the  nature  of  thinc^s,  bring 
the  young  parents  to  a  closer  understand- 
ing. 

But  they  were  wrong.  No  human 
force,  it  seemed,  could  mate  these  two. 

They  ceased,  by  conmion  accord,  to  live 
as  man  and  wife. 

Labelle  sought  and  found  elsewhere  his 
"little  pleasures." 

His  wife,  a  convent  girl,  discovered  in 
the  joys  of  motherhood  a  solace  for  her 
wounds. 

A  granite  wall  rose  between  them. 
They  came  and  went  as  strangers. 

There  had  been  times,  through  the 
years,  when,  returning  in  his  cups  from 
the  village,  late  in  the  night,  he  had  mus- 


iO 


The  Golden  floppy 


tered  the  courage  to  venture  across  the 
lobby  from  his  own  room  to  that  of  his 
wife.  Repeated  knocks  on  the  door  had 
elicited  no  reply  from  within. 

One  night,  however,  having  drunk 
more  deeply  than  was  his  wont,  he  grew 
more  bold,  and.  refusing  further  to  accept 
her  silence  as  a  refusal,  called  her  by 
name. 

1  he  gates  of  his  promised  land  went 
wide  and  he  beheld  his  wife  in  the  door- 
way, pale  and  startled. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked. 

"T  have  been  thinking,"  he  said,  "that 
we  should  leave  off  this  manner  of  living 
and  be  more  like  man  and  wife  towards 
each  other.     What  say  you — Marie?" 

And  she  did  what  he  thought  was  a 
strange  thing.  She  laughed  outright  in 
his  face.  It  was  a  laugh  that  chilled  him 
to  the  bone  and  stung  his  torpid  senses 
to  a  realization  of  what  he  haa  done.  And 
while  he  was  still  standing  there,  gaping 
stupidly  for  want  of  words,  the  door 
closed  again  and  the  key  clicked  harshly 


The  Cioldcv  Poppy 


51 


in  the  lock.  He  went  back  to  his  room, 
sobered  and  ashamed.  It  was  his  last  at- 
tempt at  reconciliation.  And  this  had 
been  years  ago. 

They  seldom  quarreled. 

They  had  long  since  receded  from  that 
stage  of  intimacy  which  would  have  per- 
mitted or  engendered  the  violent  out- 
breaks incidental  in  less  frigid  unions. 
What  they  had  ever  held  towards  each 
othei  of  love  or  of  passion  was  dead  now, 
vanished  and  forgotten. 

Tacitly  it  had  been  agreed  that  the 
mother  was  to  have  her  way  in  the  rearing 
of  the  little  girl,  while  Philippe  was  to  be 
dictator  of  the  farm.  The  house  was  par- 
celed off  as  a  sort  of  neutral  ground. 

To  the  credit  of  Philippe  Labelle  it 
must  be  said  that  his  stewardship  had 
been  fruitful  of  improvements  and  of 
profit. 

SeemingI}  indefatigable,  he  labored 
early  and  late  in  the  fields,  in  the  barns, 
among  the  stock.  He  knew  no  hour  of 
night  or  day  while  a  task  lay  undone  be- 


5^ 


The  Golden  Poppy 


fore  him.  He  was  vain  of  his  great  en- 
durance and  joyed  in  his  lusty  prowess. 
His  were  the  finest  barns  and  stables  in 
the  county,  his  the  purest  stock,  his  the 
most  abundant  yield  of  grain. 

He  loved  the  earth  and  toiled  untiringly 
that  she  might  blossom  and  bear  fruit 
anew.  And  she  rewarded  him  in  profu- 
sion with  her  gifts,  even  as  a  mother  does 
her  favorite  son. 


CHAPTER  FIVE. 


The  harvest  moon  smiled  down  on 
fields  of  plenty  in  Lamartinette. 

Over  the  acres  of  Philippe  Labelle  rose 
a  magic,  tented  city  that  rolled  away  to 
the  verge,  golden  with  promise. 

The  habitants  sang  lustily  afield  and 
toiled  with  w^illing  brawn;  for  the  earth 
had  been  bounteous  with  her  gifts  and 
they  were  glad  with  the  knowledge  of 
abundance. 

Even  Nazaire  went  about  his  work 
with  something  of  a  lighter  mood;  and 
Philomcne.  who  was  cooking  for  the  har- 
vesters at  the  home  of  Philippe,  took  on 
a  semblance  of  civility  towards  the  men. 

Not  that  the  gain  of  Philippe  meant 
theirs  in  a  like  measure.  But  they  hoped 
that  it  might  reflect  some  degree  of  bet- 
terment in  their  condition. 

[531 


54 


The  Golden  Poppy 


Nazairc  had  finally  succeeded,  after 
many  futile  ai  tempts,  in  obtaining  a 
promise  of  better  wages,  provisional  upon 
an  increase  in  the  yield  of  his  brother's 
crops. 

The  fre(|uent  visits  of  David  Randon 
to  the  Labelle  homestead  soon  became  a 
topic  of  interest  in  Lamartinette. 

It  was  generally  believed  that  the  Ran- 
dons  of  St.  John's  were  well  provided 
with  the  goods  of  the  world.  Indeed,  the 
young  David,  now  a  graduate  in  medi- 
cine, was  considered  quite  "worth  while" 
l)y  all  who  knew  the  chronology  of  the 
two  neighlioring  towns. 

The  elder  Randons  had  died  some  years 
ago,  while  David  was  still  in  the  classics, 
leaving  him  and  his  sister,  Julia,  to  share 
the  estate. 

Julia,  a  sweet-faced  girl  of  twenty  sum- 
mers, had  entered  the  sisterhood  of  the 
Congregation  de  Xotre  Dame  shortly 
after  her  graduation  from  one  of  the 
convents  of  that  order,  leaving  David 
l)retty  much  his  own  master. 


The  Golden  Poppy 


55 


1\vo  old  and  trusted  servants,  The- 
ophile  Beaulieu  and  Octavie  Monette, 
were  left  in  charq-e  of  the  Randon  home- 
stead by  the  family  lawyer  and  executor, 
luistache  Girard,  while  the  youne^  Ran- 
dons  were  at  school  in  Montreal. 

To-day.  David  found  himself  sole  heir 
to  the  Randon  estate — a  start  in  life  some- 
what more  pretentious  than  real,  as 
Girard  himself  well  knew. 

It  was  known  only  to  him  that  young 
Randon  would  inherit  little  beyond  what 
lie  already  possessed — a  profession  as  a 
means  of  livelihood,  a  house  to  call  his 
home  and  a  few  acres  of  land  about  the 
place. 

Some  day  Girard  would  have  a  talk 
with  the  young  man.  A  confidential, 
fatherly  talk.  It  would  be  a  painful  tete- 
a-tete  for  both.  But  it  would  have  to  be. 
He  wished  now  that  he  had  had  it  over 
with  long  ago,  when  the  son  of  his  old 
friend  was  still  a  lad  "en  culottes."  Well, 
well,  it  wa>  a  nasty  bit  of  work  to  have 


5^ 


The  Golden  Poppy 


starinjT;'  one  in  the  face.  But,  somehow, 
it  always  fell  to  the  lot  of  lawyers  or 
preachers  to  patch  up  the  shortcomings 
of  others.  Was  it  not  so?  Of  course  it 
was,  anrl,  no  flouht,  would  continue  to  he 
till  the  (lay  of  the  last  trumpet.  Eh,  Bon 
Dieu ! 

Isahelle  had  not  overcome  her  dislike 
for  the  life  of  the  farm.  The  unvarying, 
colorless  routine  of  day  succeeding  day, 
the  wordless,  apathetic  resignation  of 
those  about  her  to  the  yoke  of  toil,  the  en- 
circling confines  of  their  sphere  of  action 
in  the  world  and  the  narrowing  limita- 
tions that  such  a  life  must  in  time  pre- 
scribe for  mind  and  soul,  filled  her  with 
an  indefinable  dread.  There  were  times 
when  she  would  have  taken  flight,  had  it 
not  been  for  a  girlish  timidity,  a  natural 
fear  of  hidden  responsibilities,  which  the 
outside  world  might  hold  in  store  for  her. 
A  dread  of  the  unknown,  such  as  men  feel 
who  walk  in  the  dark. 

She  spent  much  of  her  spare  time  in 
reading  books  from  her  mother's  room. 


The  Golden  Poppy 


57 


Tof^ether  with  Randon  she  rode  over 
tlie  loni;.  shaded  pikes,  visiting^  strange 
scenes. 

Sometimes  her  ompanion  was  Pierre, 
ulio  spoke  of  the  wild  flowers  and  the 
trees  and  unveiled  to  her  the  mysteries  of 
the  forest. 

She  listened  with  child-like  delight  to 
the  wonderful  lore  of  the  furry  tribes  and 
their  feathered  brothers  of  the  trees. 

In  such  moments  she  deplored  the 
choice  that  Pierre  had  made,  in  her  belief 
that  in  a  world  of  action  he  might  have 
become  one  of  its  great  men. 

As  for  Pierre,  he  never  spoke  of  his 
hopes  or  ambitions,  if  such  he  had.  In- 
deed, it  seemed  to  Isabelle  that  he  avoided, 
when  possible,  any  mention  of  himself. 
Me  appeared  greatly  pleased  to  be  with 
her  and  his  strong,  honest  face  grew  sad 
and  pensive  at  parting. 

Pierre  Thibeau  had  come  to  the  home 
of  Philippe  Labelle  when  still  quite  young. 
Three  years  at  the  little  country  schoot- 


58 


The  Golden  Poppy 


house  near  tlie  farm  had  been  followed 
by  a  course  of  four  years  in  the  Marist 
College  at  Lamar linette,  to  which,  later, 
he  added  two  years  in  agriculture 
at   L'Assomption. 

The  childhood  of  Pierre  and  Isabelle 
had  run  a  happy,  care- free  course  in  the 
fields  and  woodland.  The  two  children 
were  inse])arable.  They  mij;ht  be  seen 
together  in  the  meadows,  gathering  wild 
flowers,  along  the  banks  of  the  clear,  cool 
brook,  speeding  miniature  flotillas,  fash- 
ioned by  their  own  little  hands,  on  their 
way  to  the  deep,  swift  waters  of  the  ma- 
jestic Richelieu;  in  the  woods,  at  butter- 
nut time,  and  later,  when  the  winds 
of  Autumn  shook  the  great  spreading 
branches  of  the  beech  with  mighty  gusts, 
covering  the  ground  with  opening  burrs. 

Together  they  had  braved  the  winter 
winds  to  build  their  hut  of  snow,  without 
which  no  winter  could  be  quite  complete, 
and  fashion  a  snow  man  at  the  gate,  who 
would  guard  the  entrance  through  the 
long,  white  night. 


The  Golden  f'of^py 


59 


And  when  the  stin^  of  the  north  wind 
liad  p;hx'n  way  to  April's  warm  caress  and 
the  mountain  chains  of  crystal  white 
melted  away  and  thundered  off  to  sea, 
they  still  shared  their  childish  joys. 

For  was  not  this  the  season  when  the 
sap  flowed  from  the  maples  to  make  syrup 
for  them  and  su.cfar  forsooth  ? 

And  so  it  was  that  they  journeyed  off 
together — always  together — to  the  sugar 
cabin  of  Philippe  Labelle,  where  great 
brown  cakes  of  maple  sugar  took  form 
under  their  eager  eyes  and  wonderful  iron 
pots  were  kept  boiling  with  the  sap  until 
it  turned  thick  and  golden  in  the  glad 
April  sun. 

And  there  was  old  Jongleur,  who  was 
fond  of  little  folk  and  moulded  sugar 
hearts  and  stars  for  them  and  cooked 
fresh  eggs  from  the  farm  and  pork  in  a 
great  panful  of  bubbling  maple  syrup, 
over  a  campfire  stove. 

Oh,  they  were  golden  days,  swift- 
speeding    days,    running    like    powdered 


6o 


77;r  (i olden  Poppx 


sand  throup:h  thoui^htlcss,  careless  hands, 
Imrhlint;  on  to  tlu-  ij^roati-r  sircani  of  their 
lit'e  even  as  the  reckless  brook,  that  had 
hurried  their  child-made  ships  to  the  fret- 
ful waters  of  the  Richelieu. 


CHAPTER  SIX. 


The  thrashers  were  ^onc.  The  mows 
and  p^ranarics  were  filled  to  overflowing. 

As  Labelle  stood  with  arms  folded 
across  his  chest,  his  feet  planted  squarely 
on  the  floor,  surveying  the  fruits  of  his 
toil,  a  gleam  of  satisfaction  played  on  his 
swarthy  face. 

There  had  never  been  such  a  yield. 
This  year  would  long  be  remembered  by 
the  habitants.  For  the  Bon  Dieu  had 
watched  over  their  fields  and  their  flocks 
and  given  them  rains  and  sunshine  in 
abundance,  as  he  had  not  done  before. 
And  among  those  who  prospered  most  at 
the  hands  of  a  kind  providence  was 
Philippe  Labelle. 

He  turned  from  contemplation  of  the 
earth's  gifts  to  the  open  doorway  of  the 
barn.    The  sun  was  now  high  above  the 

[61] 


62 


77/1'  Goltlc^i  fo^f'y 


hliic  liills  ill  tin-  orist.  A  t^'rateful  breeze 
wafted  u|)  t'ruiii  the  green  ami  dun  slopes 
of  the  valley. 

In  ilie  lif>llo\vs  of  the  leaves  and 
gfrasses.  the  tears  of  tiie  ni^j^ht  glistened 
like  a  shower  of  pearls. 

A  plumed  knight  of  the  barnyard 
called  his  wives  about  him  and  stood  by, 
well  j)leased  with  his  prowess,  while  they 
shared  the  treasure  tro\e  of  their  lord. 

.\s  Labelle  started  towards  the  door,  the 
bulky  figure  of  Xazaire  stepped  heavil. 
into  the  opening.  He  craned  his  short, 
thick  neck  to  assure  himself  of  his 
brother's  presence;  then  entered. 

"Salut,"  he  said,  moving  over  towards 
the  other,  bis  eyes  on  the  ground,  his 
brown,  pudgy  hands  behind  his  back. 

"Salut,  Xazaire." 

"A  fine  crop,  eh,  Philippe?  What  say 
you?  NomdeDieu!  If  this  good  fortune 
keeps  up,  you'll  be  moving  to  the  city, 
running  for  parliament — who  knows 
what !" 


.-•^  ^ 


The  Golden  Popp\ 


63 


"Hu^h  Up!"  jj^rovvU'd   Philippe.     "You 
prate  lik;   a  fool." 

"Ju.st  the  same,  you  hrne  had  a  hig  crop. 
\  ou  will  not  deny  it !" 

"Well,  they  don't  hang  people  for  that. 
What  of  it?" 

"Just  this — where  do  I  come  in?" 

"What  do  you  nitan?" 

"Your  promise  of  hetter  wages — You 
have  not  forgotten?  One  year  ago  today 
we  talked  it  over.  At  that  time  you 
sair'— " 

"Ah,  yes,  to  be  sure — at  that  time.    But 
you  must  know  that  things  have  changed 
vastly  '^ince  then.     I  was  just  thinking, 
here  by  myself,  how  much  better  off  I  was 
wuh  a  smaller  income — and  less  expense. 
Yes,  sir,   I  was  saying  to  myself  as  you 
stepped  in:    'Philippe  Labelle,  ycu  are  not 
as  well  off  as  you  were  when  you  had 
less.'    Besides.  I  am  afraid  I  will'  have  to 
hire  another  man.     You  see,  Nazaire,  we 
grow  older  as  time  runs  on ;  and  the  years, 
as  they  go  by,  take  toll  of  our  youth  and 
strength.     You  are  not  the  man  you  used 


64 


The  Golden  Poppy 


to  be;  and   I    cannot   consent   to  paying 
more  and  getting  less." 

"That  is  your  answer,  then?"  croaked 
Nazaire,  his  flabby  face  going  pasty 
white.  "This  is  how  my  brother  keeps 
his  word!" 

"As  you  will  have  it."  said  Philippe. 

The  two  men  stood  for  a  space,  irreso- 
lute, a  deadly  tire  glinting  in  their  eyes, 
their  tists  clenched,  like  savage  beasts 
waiting  to  spring  at  each      her's  throat. 

Then  Philippe,  with  the  sang  froid  that 
liad  arried  him  through  many  such 
scenes  in  his  life,  turned  on  his  heel  and 
strode  out  of  the  barn. 

Nazaire.  atremble  with  rage,  watched 
the  receding  figure  till  the  door  of  the 
kitchen  had  opened  and  closed  again. 

"Some  day!"  he  exclaimed  with  a 
frightful  oath,  his  hand  raised  to  heaven. 
Then    he,   too,    passed   out   of  the   barn. 

There  was  fuel  to  be  cut  <"      the  winter. 

He  shouldered  an  axe  ;-..d  started  ofT 
towards  the  wood  that  skirted  the  farm. 


CHAPTER  SE\'KX. 


Suninier  waned,  red  and  }:^olden  on  the 
lull  tops. 

Day  l^y  day,  the  oris]),  sere  leaves 
fluttered  over  the  earth,  hke  wounded 
fledgeHngs.  The  kites  of  the  wind  intoned 
the  requiem  of  flower  and  song".  The  sun 
rose  in  a  blanket  of  clinging-  mist.  The 
night  dews  were  cold  and  drenching. 
Vast,  cloud-like  flocks  of  feathered  voy- 
agers sailed  by  each  day,  on  their  way  to 
the  southland.  The  robins  carrolled  their 
farewell  song  and  winged  awav. 

Swift,  hurrying  scuds  of  cloud  raced, 
like  black-draped  chariots,  across  the 
cheerless  sky.  The  leafless  trees  stretched 
their  bare  arms  to  heaven,  in  mute  appeal. 
The  rushing  winds  whipped  and  stung. 
Winter,  white-robed,  cold  and  pitiless, 
was  at  hand. 

I6.T) 


66 


The  Golden  Topp\ 


Tsahelle  was  lonely. 

She  had  hoped  that  time  would  adapt 
lier  to  her  surrouiidin.i^s,  that  the  crude- 
ness  of  the  environment  might  take  on 
something  of  charm  tc  her  eyes.  She  had 
wished  man}  times  that  she  might  acquire 
the  vision  of  life  that  had  been  given  to 
Pierre,  the  satisfying  philosophy  that  was 
her  mother's.  In  these  hopes  she  had  been 
d'lomed  to  disappointment. 

She  knew  by  deep-rooted  instinct  that 
this  was  the  cleaner  life,  the  better  part. 
But  the  calm  serenity  of  the  long  days,  the 
tomb-like  stillness  of  the  nights  filled  her, 
at  times,  with  a  sense  of  desolation  that 
-purred  her  to  tlce.  to  be  away  from  the 
rrushing  spell. 

She  and  Randon  had  reached  a  stage 
of  intimate  camaraderie  which  gave  her 
jtleasurc  in  their  meetings.  More  than 
once  she  revealed  her  feelings  to  him.  He 
appeared  to  sympathize,  to  understand. 

OifTeretit  natures,  he  lold  her.  required 
differeju  settings. 

fie  him^vlf  had  no  thought  of  settling 


T!\c  Golden   Popi^x 


67 


ili>\\!i  t.)  practice  in  St.  Iolin'<  or  I/nnar- 
litK'tle.  lie  must  hrtve  a  hrqor  field  of 
activity.  Besides,  it  was  no  gteater 
undcrt.:k-nq-  to  >--triV'.^L;k'  for  success  in  a 
lar.e^e  cit)-  than  in  a  h.-inik-i. 

One  da>-,  he  i-poke  more  clf  irl\-  of  his 
hf)i)e'^.  Girard  liad  told  him  all.  His  for- 
tune totaled  something  under  three  thou- 
sand dollars.  A  jnirchaser  liu!  heeti  found 
for  the  homestead.  He  was  preparing-  to 
lea\e  St.  John's.  He  was  going  to  Mont- 
real.    Would  she  become  his  wife? 

They  were  standing  on  the  edge  of  the 
corn  field,  near  the  brook  in  which  she 
had  played  with  Pierre  years  agonc. 

Somehow  she  tl;on';!;i  of  !:;;-,]  now — of 
Pierre  the  tnild  ir.annered.  the  go.^d. 

Would  he  e\er  wed? 

What  sort  of  woman  would  he  trdvc  for 
wife? 

He  was  so  silent  about  himself. 

Randon  was  speaking. 

She  roused  from  her  musing  to  hear 
liim. 

It  would  be  but  a  sliort  time — a  bridge 


il 


f)S 


The  Coldcii  I'oppy 


to  cross — and  he  would  have  a  practice. 
He  had  enough  to  tide  them  over. 

A  great  pumpkin,  which  she  had  not 
noticed  until  now,  loomed,  round  and 
garish  in  the  light  of  the  rising  moon. 

She  felt  him  reaching  for  her  hand, 
under  her  cape.  Then  he  drew  her  face 
around  to  his  and  gazed  steadfastly  into 
her  eyes  for  what  seemed  a  long  while  to 
her. 

He  had  never  kissed  her. 

"Will  you  be  mine?"  he  said,  very 
softly. 

A  feeling  akin  to  sadness  stole  o\er 
her.     She  .'shuddered  as  from  cold. 

A  little  ship  sailed  by,  child-made  and 
crude.  Then  another;  and  another;  a 
flotilla.  And  she  and  Pierre  were  waving 
them  Godspeed  as  they  took  the  current 
of  the  babbling  stream. 

Would  Pierre  ever  marry? 

"And  what  kind  of  a  girl — " 

"Isabelle!" 

She  turned  back  again  to  David.     Her 


The  Golden  I'otpx 


fycj 


face  was  pale  in  the  moonlight.    Her  eyes 

stared  like  a  frightened  child's. 
"Do  you  love  me?"  she  asked.  ^ 
"Yes,  yes — with  all  my  heart." 
She  rested  her  head  upon  his  breast 

and  smiled. 

The  round,  white  moon,  the  purling 
brook,  the  stilly,  star-domed  vast  beheld 
their  betrothal  kiss. 


cuAPTi'.R  F.icirr 


(h\  tlif  iiKjrrow  Kami' in  came  over  from 
Si.  jnlm's  lo  make  his  atlicux  and  ac(|uaim 
the  parent  Lahelles  with  his  engaj^ement 
to  their  danq-hter. 

The  mother  came  into  the  ])arlor,  her 
hanfls  extended  in  welcome. 

"I  con,c:[ratulatc  yon.  Doctor  Ivandon," 
she  smiled. 

Isahelle  had  told  lur. 

Oh,  it  would  be  so  lonely  uith  "her 
baby"  gone.  She  was  just  be,i;inning  to 
see  a  bit  of  sunsliine.  And  now.  clouds 
aijain.  What  a  constant  rending  life  was! 
But,  she  braved  smilingly  through  it  and 
soon  left  the  lovers  alone  in  tiie  room. 

Presently  Philippe  cauie  into  the  house. 
There  was  mud  on  his  boots  and  he 
smelled  strongly  of  the  stable.     Mrs.  La- 


17(11 


77; f  C olden  I'oppy 


71 


belli-  lt)lcl  him  briefly  that  Randnn  wished 
to  see  him  in  the  parlor. 

He  i)a^se<l  out  of  the  kitchen  without 
making  rei)ly  and  into  the  rtjom  where  the 
young  people  were  waiting. 

A  protracted  visit  to  the  inn  of  the 
widow  Duclos,  accounted  for  the  deep 
flush  that  reddened  the  tan  of  his  face.  He 
straightened  perceptibly  as  his  iiand 
turned  tiie  knob  of  the  door.  He  stood 
on  the  threshold  with  the  air  of  an  over- 
lord. 

"You  wish  to  see  me.  Monsieur?"  he 

enquired. 

Randon  came  straight  to  the  point. 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "I  am  here  to  ask  you 
for  the  hand  of  your  daughter.'" 

"She  is  willing ?"     Isabelle  is  willing?" 

"Yes — we  are  engaged — with  ymr 
approval,  of  course." 

"You  are  prepared  to  give  her  as  good 
a  home  as  she  has  been  accustomed  to?" 

The  farmer  was  enjoying  the  moment 
immensely.  He  had  learned  the  true 
state  of  affairs  in  the  Randon  estate. 


72 


The  Cokicu  Poppy 


"I  cannot  say  that,"  the  young  man 
repHed.  "As  matters  now  stand,  I  have 
Httle  beyond  my  profession  and — a  future. 
Isabelle  knows  my  circumstances  and  i^ 
satisfied." 

"Well,  after  all,"  the  great  man  con- 
ceded, "it  is  for  her  to  say.  It  is  she  who 
will  have  to  live  with  you." 

He  cleared  his  throat,  like  a  judg<' 
about  to  pronounce  sentence. 

"And  as  she  makes  her  bed.  so  will  she 
lie.  Vou  have  my  consent,  both  of  you. 
And  I  hope  you  will  make  a  success  of 
your  menage." 

Randon  thanked  him  for  his  good 
wishes. 

For  a  moment  Labelle  gazed  from  one 
to  the  other  of  the  lovers,  in  silence.  He 
felt  impelled  to  speak,  to  say  something 
worthy  the  occasion.  Rut  his  thoughts 
clashed  wretchedly  and  the  words  died 
unutterod  upon  his  lips.  He  was  visibly 
embarrassed. 

He  mumbled  something  about  a  sick 
!f>i-^c    r((|niring    attention    and    left    the 


The  Gnldcv   I'otty 


73 


room,  deeply  c)U fused.  In  ihe  stable  he 
Ciinie  upon  Pierre,  who  was  pitching  down 
hay  for  the  stock. 

''Well/'  said  I.ahelle.  'they're  engaged 
to  he  married." 

The  young  man  straightened  up  from 
his  work  and  gazed  fixedly  at  the  speaker. 

"Vou  mean — " 

"Isahelle  and  Randon,  of  course.    Who 

else?" 

Pierre  stood  a  long  while,  his  strong, 
brown  hands  clasped  over  the  fork  handle, 
his  dark  eyes  hazy  in  thought.  At  last 
he  said: 

"Randon  is  a  lucky  man — a  very  lucky 
man.     I  congratulate  him." 

"And  how  about  Isabelle?"  demanded 
the  father.  "Is  she  not  to  be  congratu- 
lated as  well?" 

"That  I  don't  know,"  Pierre  replied, 
eoing  back  to  his  task. 


ClIAITI-.K    XIXR. 


It  was  lite  that  iiiLrlu  when  Randnn 
took  hi-  leave  of  lsal)ellc.  A  crooninj,^ 
hrceze  plaved  ..mcnijT  ihc  lea\es  of  the 
niaj)les.  From  the  brook  on  the  e<l^e  oi 
the  eorn  held  rose  a  pcrsi-tent  ehorr  ot 
sow^.  \  while  disc  of  moon  hiinjj^  from 
tJK'  liml)  Oi  a  tree  on  the  spnr  of  a  listant 
hill,  hi    ■  a  --il    <t  lanlern. 

Ivahflle  ^lood  on  the  xeraiul.  watchin^J^ 
the  ear  a^  it  receded  mto  tlu-  shadon  s.  A 
sense  of  niter  loneliness  swept  over  her, 
now  that  he  was  i:^one.  She  went  into  the 
house  and  tip-toed  her  way  to  iicr  room. 

That  ni^ht.  arm  in  arm  with  David,  she 
wandered  over  many  miles  of  streets, 
meetinif,'  s'^i'l  ^'iccs,  viewing  strange  and 
wondrous  scenes. 

He  was  a  .great  man  and  she  his  lady 
fair.       The   gay   city    smiled   down   upon 

(741 


77/ 1'  CnliL'i!   I't'l'j'y 


/  ? 


thcni.  They  were  very  lia])py  It  seiMiu'fl 
to  luT  lli;it  Ik-  !i;i(l  >\v]>[  hut  a  tew  nio 
iiiciit-  \\h  II  Imih'-^Iuu'  called  lu-r  for 
hrcaki  -t  riir  lealiiv  "I  the  new  (la\ 
cl'>ve(j  111  lu'.i\  ;ly  upon  her.  I  le  was  ;.,n)ne. 
ll  would  he  \ery  lonely  withou'  him.  She 
wishetl  thai  [•■rnestiiie  had  let  her  sleen. 
She  crossed  the  room  to  the  window  and 
•jazed  oil!  upon  the  day.  ller  eye.^  dwelt 
fondly  upon  the  road  helow.  wliieh  hid 
led  him  to  her  r^o  many  limes. 

She  lurned  \  >  hi-^  phot()jxra])li,  in  a  sil 
ver  frame  on  the  dresser.  Takinj.;  it  in 
both  her  ''elly  hands,  she  ^azed  fixedly 
into  the  eye^  of  the  likeness  and  [)ressed 
the  ])ieture  to  her  lips  in  a  lon,^^.  fer\id 
kiss,  'lii'ii  she  dressed  and  went  down  to 
till  diiiiii;4"rooni,  where  her  mother  was 
w  iiting'. 

Isabelle  was  delighted  with  the  pros- 
pect of  dwelling  in  the  metropolis.  The 
beckoning  mysteries  of  ihc  city  thrilled 
her  young  soul. 

She  longed  for  the  day  wlien  she  might 
go   forth    from   her   stilling  surroundings 


■(} 


T!>r  (iolilt-ii    I'ol'fy 


towanl    \\\v    iiprii    |)Mii,i|-    ■)!     l'.-,-    iliram 
I,:n'l       Slir  \\i>ii!(l  lie  li.ipii;    tlini 

It  liml  l.i'cn  ,ii;rrril  liy  lu-i-  .iiid  1  ),i\  id 
Id  w  I'd  in  llu'  sprini;-.  Mt,-  would  c-miu'  to 
claim  lli^  hndr  and  ran^  lirr  oft  to  tlu-ir 
future  abode. 

Day  hv  day  the  winds  jrrcw  colder.  The 
siiorteuinL;-  day^  dracf'^c*!  hy  slowly  under 
a  leaden  sky. 

Letters  came,  at  frefjuent  inter\-al.s, 
from  David,  in  which  he  told  of  his  work 
as  an  interne  at  St.  Malachi's  He  had 
been  assip^ned  to  ami)ulance  work.  He 
saw  much  misery  about  him.  lie  had 
little  time  to  himself.  The  life  of  an  in- 
terne teemed  with  duties,  which  recjuired 
his  pie^ence  in  the  lioNpital  both  ni.c^ht  and 
day. 

The  months  that  followed  prescribed 
manifold  acli\ities  for  Isabelle.  There 
was  her  trousseau  to  prepare.  Letters  to 
write.  A  share  of  the  household  duties, 
which  she  insisted  must  be  performed  by 
luT      Mrs.  Labellc  appeared  to  be  break- 


riir  (,1'hh'ii   f'lf'py 


\u'^.  Ilir  iiiiiiairnl  rMHililinii  !-ci|nin'(I 
ninn\    litllc-  .ittcntion ,. 

IMiili|)|)v  now  -])t'iit  iiiucli  >>\  liis  linu'  in 
tlie  tap-room  of  the  widow  Diiclos.  i  Ic 
usually  caiiR'  lioiiu'  loud  and  (luarrelsouic. 
He  drew  tnan\  cliccks  oti  the  vill.i<:fe  bank, 
of  late.  In  his  soher  hours  he  was  mo- 
rose and,  for  the  most  part,  silent. 

One  day,  in  the  early  part  of  Xovember 
the  sun  rose  in  a  l)lur  of  blackish  cloud. 
.\  piercing  wind  whi[)ped  the  crisp,  rat- 
tling leaves  into  little  mounds  along  the 
highway  and  in  the  open  spaces. 

Towards  noon,  a  stinging,  powdery 
snow  began  to  fall. 

Soon,  the  faded  surface  of  the  earth  was 
•nantled  with  a  thick  covering  of  white. 
As  the  day  wore  on.  the  wind  increased 
ir.  fury,  beating  th.e  snow  into  a.i  endless 
chain  of  drifts.  Towards  night  tiie  skv 
cleared.  The  .oar  of  the  winter  wind  sub- 
sided to  a  death-room  whisper  among  che 
stark,  trembling  trees.  The  moon  re 
o\er  a  fro/en,  crvstal  waste. 


ciiArri'.R  'ri:x. 


riiroug-h  the  loni^,  white  months  that 
followed,  there  was  coniparalively  little 
for  the  men  to  do  ahont  the  farm. 

ICach  day  the  stock  were  fed,  t'>e  cows 
milked,  the  stalls  and  ducts  cleaiied  and 
new  beds  of  straw  laid  for  the  patient 
beasts. 

If  the  da\  was  fine,  they  were  turned 
out  for  a  few  hours  in  tlu  clear,  crisp  air. 

Labelle  had  taken,  of  late,  to  si)ending 
nmch  of  his  time  in  the  village,  leaving 
the  work,  for  tlie  most  i)art,  t(^  Pierre  and 
Xazaire. 

These  two,  though  by  no  means  un- 
friendly, held  little  communion  together. 
They  came  and  went  their  separate  ways, 
with  a  nod  of  the  head,  a  "bon  jour,"  or 
an  "au  revoir." 

Since    tlu-    announcement   of    Tsabelle's 

[78] 


I'll '  (, olden  Poppy 


79 


engagement  I'ierre  had  turned  sombre 
and  pensive.  He  spent  niueli  time  in  his 
room,  reacHng.  To  Isabelle  he  was  ap- 
parently the  same  as  ever,  kindly,  solici- 
tous and  thoughtful. 

When  the  sky  was  clear  and  the  sun 
unfur'ed  his  gray  l)lankets  of  cloud  to 
ga/-e  about  o\er  the  earth,  Pierre  would 
])rop()se  a  sleigh  ride  in  the  country. 

Such  was  always  a  welcome  event  to 
Isabelle.  who  delighted  in  the  throbbing 
iiiu^ic  of  llu'  bells,  in  ilie  lleeing  })ano- 
rama  oi  pine-clad  hills,  in  the  shimmering 
whiteness  of  the  rolling  countrw 

To  her  eyes  Pierre  had  never  changed. 
He  was,  today,  the  same  faith-abiding, 
rugged  child  of  the  s  >il  tha*  had  been  lier 
barefoot  hero  years  agone. 

She  ofttimes  marvelled  at  the  gap  that 
had  opened,  by  slow  degrees,  between 
them. 

She  wondered  if  he,  too.  had  sensed  the 
widening  of  the  little  circle  of  their  life 
and  if  he  s.iv.  the  whirl  in  the  troubled 
waters    between    them.      She    could    not 


So 


The  Coldcn  Pot^py 


know,  from  his  manner  towards  her,  wliat 
poignant  hungering;  had  gniwed  his 
heart.  i\'or  could  she  tell  that  her  going 
forth,  another's  wife,  must  mean  the 
crumbling  of  his  fondest  hopes.  One  day. 
when  il.cy  were  children  in  the  meadows, 
there  luA  oeen  a  v.edding. 

Pierre  was  the  ha])py  groom;  Isabelle 
the  smiling  bride. 

Other  little  ones,  from  the  neighboring 
farms,  were  the  cure,  the  best  man,  brides- 
maids and  guests. 

Mamtran  Labelle  served  the  wedding 
feast  in  a  shady  corner  of  the  orchard. 
There  was  a  frosted  cake;  and  lemonade; 
and  apples;  and  plums.  It  was  a  grt-it 
event;  and  was  not  soon  forgotten. 

As  the  years  went  by,  the  golden  child- 
hood hour  of  make-believe  became  a  cher- 
ished memory  in  the  heart  of  Pierre,  a 
sacred  symbol  of  his  future  happiness. 
Through  the  seven  years  of  her  absence 
from  the  homestead  he  waited  the  day  of 
her  final  coming  with  the  .smiling  patience 
of  hoj-K?.     V  had  not  dawned  upon  him 


The  Golden  Poppy 


8i 


that  time  is  the  hand-servant  of  oblivion, 
that  childhood  love  is  but  a  tender  flower 
and  has  n-^t  long  to  live. 

He  had  noted,  with  growing  apprehen- 
sion, the  changing  moods  of  her  letters 
which  became  more  and  more  infrequent 
as  time  went  by. 

A  disconcerting  queenliness  of  bearing, 
which  came  to  her  with  adolescence, 
stayed  the  glad  welcome  on  his  lips  and 
chilled  his  heart  with  doubt  uiK>n  her  re- 
turn to  Lamartinetle. 

Somewhere  along  the  way  of  the  years 
she  had  outgrown  her  little  self  of  the 
meadows. 

But  Pierre,  steadfa.st  and  staunch,  re- 
mained a  watchful  worshipper,  albeit  the 
lovely  tenant  of  his  shrine  had  long  since 
departed. 

One  day.  m  mid-uinter.  the  sun  shone 
bright  over  the  hills,  a  few  faithful  spar- 
rinv-^  twittered  hopefully  in  the  leafless 
tree>  and  the  snow  turned  soft  and  pliant 
to  the  foot. 

Towards  noon,  Pierre  came  in  from  the 


Sj 


'I'll':  Cold  en  /'  /i/'v 


barii.s,  liis  ork  done  for  i!ic  il.iy.  Xa- 
7.[\\vQ  would  do  ihc  c-wiiiuL;  rhorc<.  Pierre 
IkkI  Dusiness  al  lue  I'oiiU.  a  litile  lo^vn  on 
the  ed^c  of  Lake  « 'haniiikiin.  -uiu- 
ctij^htccn  mi'  -^  away.  I'lie  roads  were  in 
perfect  condition.  Would  Isahelle  care 
for  the  drive ? 

de    !.   -he  wduld   'le  delic,dited  to  t^o. 
And    >o.   an   hoiu-   later,   they   had   left 
laniartinette  hehind  them  and  were  well 
oui  in  the  open  couiitr\. 

I'ar  as  the  eye  coiild  ^ee,  rolled  an  end 
less,  dazzlim.-;  vista  of  crvsial  while.  The 
sleii^-h  hell>  shrilK'd  the-r  silvery  \iiiees 
over  the  >ilent  waste.  Aion^-  the  high- 
way, farm  hon^eN  rose,  at  lon^-  intervals, 
and  sank  a.^-ain  he'ow  the  vorq-e,  peaceful 
"-entinels  n\  thrift  and  firc-ide  happiness. 
(  harleiiia'.'.ne,  a  s{)]cndid  hay  that  Pierre 
had  owned  from  hirlh.  was  in  his  finest 
fettle.  11  i<  j)roud  head  hip^h  in  ai'-.  his 
lonq-,  graceful  hody  swinqinjr  to  the 
rhythm  of  the  hells,  it  waN  lis  holiilav  as 
nmch  as  theirs  who  rode  hehind. 

Here   and    there    a    rnhhit    started    off 


riw  Cohlrii  I'opty 


83 


across  iIk'  >n(>\v.  /.ii^/.iLi'^ed  a  l)il  and, 
st(>|)i)in,-4  -luldcnly.  sat  upon  its  haunches 
ti)  crane  and  hslcn. 

Tlicy  readied  the  I'oi.it  a  hltle  after 
ihrec.  'I  lie  wind  \va>  risint::  now.  A  cold, 
raw  wind  out  of  llie  northeast.  'I'he  sky 
was  clouchui.^  over  rai)idly.  'Idie  sun  had 
disajjpeared  behind  a  risin-^-  scud. 

Pierre  sluni^  a  hlankel  (.ver  Charle- 
nia,i;ne  and  tetliered  him  l)eneath  the  shel- 
ter of  a  shed. 

Then,  touether  with  Isahelle,  he  went 
about  the  business  of  his  journey. 

An  hour  later,  when  they  drove  out 
onto  the  road  chat  led  lo  Lamartinette,  a 
heavv  snow  was  falling,  driven  by  a  i)ierc- 
int^-  wind.     It  was  orowinjj:  dark. 

As  tliev  passed  tlie  last  outpost  of  the 
town,  a  lar^e  white  structure  overlooking 
the  lake.  Pierre  gazed  into  the  girl's  eyes 
and  read  the  c|uestion  there. 

"("harleuKigne  can  do  it."'  he  replied. 

She  was  aboiU  to  s])eak,  to  assure  him 
that  she  was  not  afraid.     P.ut  the  roar  and 


84 


The  {iohlcu   Popp\ 


rush  (ii  till'  wind  >ii>|)pc(l  llie  words  on  her 
lips. 

Leaving-  the  reins  to  the  horse,  Pierre 
took  the  ijrcit  fur  rohe  fr-nu  the  hack  of 
the  sleij.di  and  \\Tai)j)ed  it  securely  around 
his  conij)anion.  Then  he  covered  her  feet 
with  tlie  hlankel  and  drew  the  front  rohe 
ahout  them  both. 

1  hey  were  now  in  the  open  country. 
I'he  wind  had  a  knife-hkc  edge.  The  cold 
stuni^  his  lingers  keenly.  He  slipped  the 
reins  o\er  his  head  and  buried  his  hands 
in  the  thick  f.il(i>  of  the  robe.  Charle- 
magne had  caugiit  the  challenge  of  the 
storm,  rle  knew  the  road  and  his  heart 
was  brave.  Too,  he  understood  full  well 
the  task.  Me  would  not  be  found  want- 
ing. With  the  speed  ..f  a  racer  he  plunged 
into  the  whirling  maze.  No  tug  of  the 
reins  was  needed.  Xo  word  of  command. 
He  had  never  known  the  smart  of  a  whip, 
the  sting  of  an  unkind  word. 

The  wind  was  now  blowing  straight 
from  the  north.  A  blinding  onrush  of 
snow  beat   into  their   faces,  shutting  out 


The  Coldcn   Poppy 


85 


iill  \\c\\  .  I  );irkiH'^'>  c.iiiK.'  oil  iip.icc,  II 
Icll  Willi  llic  >\\iniu'>>  Ml"  a  cnrtiiin.  i-'rom 
rolliiif^-  drill-  llii-  ,L;allani  ImrNC  h.uj^iit  mi 
into  ri>in_L,''  billows  of  >oi't.  Nami-Iikc  >no\\. 
rnerriiii^ly  lir  I'rli  hi--  way  llirouj^h  tlic 
raiLi^in<^  bli/./ard.  Slowlw  ^riui_;ini4ly  he 
tired,  as  hank  after  hank  rose  higher  in 
the  emlless  road.  lie  had  weakened  to  a 
labored  walk  and  was  barel\'  nio\in^ 
along  over  an  interminable  succession  of 
snow  hilK. 

Presently  the  sleigh  turned  out,  as  it 
seemed,  with  a  great  effort.  The  two 
tra\'elers  felt  thenisches  lifted  slowly  to 
the  crest  f^f  a  mountainous  drift;  then 
lowered  to  the  other  side.  The  dash- 
bo.ird  -.truck  hard  against  some  obiect. 
invi>^il;le  in  the  storm,  and  the\'  came  to  a 
stop.  Charlemagne  neighed  loudly. 
Pierre  rdightecl  ...iid  made  his  wa}-  sliftly 
forward,  ii^-  oiu-tretch'.-d  hands  groping 
in  the  darkne^-.  TiiC  snow  was  above  his 
knees,  he  h.'ul  not  far  lo  go.  As  he  felt 
ai-out  him.  \\\>  h.and  canic  upon  wliat  he 
knew  to  be  the  corner  of  a  log  structure. 


;^r, 


77/ ('    (niliJcu    P<)l'j'\ 


'■  riic  MdurcllL'  cabin  I'"  he  >lionic(l  )(jy- 
fully  to  Isahelle. 

\\\\\  the  j^nrl  (hd  not  iiear  hii:i.  -m  1  hkI 
was  the  din  <i|'  the  ^tonn. 

\\'i;h  niiieh  eft'oil  lie  ])l()(l(le(l  on,  feeiinjj^ 
his  way,  until  hi^  hands  were  on  the  hoh- 
hin  (.f  the  door.  With  the  eaj2;'erness  of 
•  iespair  he  pressed  down.  The  laleh  re- 
sponded readil)-.  The  door  went  wide, 
(lunj.;  hy  the  >hriekini,^  wind,  lie  st.a.o- 
i^aTcd  in  and  closed  the  door.  Im-ohi  an 
inner  pocket  ])e  !)rou<^ht  forth  niatclies 
and  made  a  light. 

An  oil  harging-lanip  was  sir-upended 
from  ;i  crossbeam.  He  touched  the  malch 
flame  to  the  charred  circle  of  wick  and 
w.is  deeply  grateful  for  the  mellow  light 
which  it  poured  softly  over  the  tenantless 
room. 

This  tlone,  he  faced  the  storm  aga'n. 
The  swirl  of  the  wind  was  strangling. 

With  awful  fury  it  Hung  him  back  into 
the  room  as  it  might  a  leaf. 

Three  times  he  re'iewed  the  attempt, 
without  success. 


Tin-   (ioliirii    I'of'f^x 


<^7 


Ai^ain  lie  went  forth,  this  time  hendinp 
low;  and  with  a  rush. 

But  the  'ig^ht  in  the  httle  casement  had 
flashed  its  dim  message  to  Isahelle;  and 
she  had  ventured  the  crossinj^. 

As  Pierre  leaped  across  the  thrcsliolrj 
into  the  maw  of  the  storm,  slic  cauij^ht  the 
i^lcani  through  the  opening  doorway  and 
felt  him  sink  into  the  snow  l)esi(lo  her. 

They  struggled  through  the  opening 
and  shut  the  door. 

"It's  the  Mourettc  cabin,"  said  Pierre, 
when  he  had  recovered  his  hreath. 

Isahelle   nodded    understanding. 

She  was  spent  from  the  ordeal  and 
made  no  effort  at  speech. 

Inhere  was  but  one  room  in  the  cabin, 
a  .square,  spacious  apartment,  built  on  the 
scheme  of  a  hunter's  lodge. 

Bear  skins  lay  about  over  the  floor. 

A  staunch,  unpolished  oak  table  took 
up  the  center  of  the  room.  Some  legal 
volumes  lay  upon  it. 

There  was  a  great  brick  fireplace  in  the 


88 


The  Cohlcii   I'opf^y 


wall;  and,  Ik-^kIc  it.  an  inipoMU);  pile  <i! 
maple  ^>f;^. 

''"here  were  nuinerous  hooks  on  shelves. 

A  wooden,  hox-jike  couch  had  heen 
huiit  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  to  serve 
the  dual  purpose  of  chest  and  bed. 

The  blankets  on  the  couch  were  dis- 
turbed, as  though  someone  who  had  been 
sleepinj;  mij:^hl  have  been  rudely  awak- 
ened and  called  away. 

A  little  door  opened  into  a  closet  wliich 
had  been  used  as  a  pantry. 

Pierre  set  about  to  build  a  fire. 

The  draught  roared  up  the  great  brick 
chimney. 

The  log  of  seasoned  maple  crackled  and 
flamed,  dispensing  warmth  and  radiance. 

Pierre  drew  a  chair  to  the  fireplace  for 
the  girl  and  announced  his  intention  of 
going  to  the  rescue  of  Charlemagne. 

"What  can  you  do  for  the  poor  fellow?" 
she  asked. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  replied.  "I'm  think- 
ing it  will  be  largely  a  matter  of  what  he 
can  do  for  himself.    But  I  have  to  release 


TJic  Golden   Popp\ 


^) 


liiin,  to  fri-f  him  from  tlic  sleigh.  As  it  is, 
lie  is  held  frist  and  cannot  move.  1  here 
is  a  lean  to,  a  sheUer  in  the  rear  of  the 
cabin  ("h.n  leinai^iie  knows  about  it. 
'I'hat  is  \\Iiy  he  tinned  >>[]'  ihc  road  and 
fonglil  his  ua>  here,  ^'oll  >ee.  he  and  I 
have  been  here  many  times  in  tlie  |)ast.  I 
knew  jnd^e  Moiirette  very  welk  I  le  n-^ed 
lo  sit  tliere.  by  the  tal)le.  and  smoke;  and 
this  was  m\  seat — by  the  wintlow." 

From  a  drawer  in  llie  table,  he  bronght 
forth  a  large,  horn  handled  hunting  knife, 
lie  opened  it  and  tested  the  edge  against 
his  thumb.  Then,  the  steel  blade  HashinL; 
in  his  hand,  he  crossed  over  to  the  door 
and  a  moment  later  was  gone. 

An  hour  passcfl  before  he  retiu-ned.  It 
was  a  long  lime  before  lie  could  speak. 
I le  said : 

"I  got  tliere  ju-t  in  linie.  I  ripped  o(\ 
ilie  harness  and  lu-  made  straight  for  the 
lean-to,  as  I  e.xpetted  hi-  would.  There  is 
hay  in  the  feed  rack.  !i  wa^  getting  back 
here  that  took  <o  long,  |  thouglit  I  would 
never  make  it." 


MICROCOPY    RESOLUTION    TEST    CHART 

-ANSI  and   ISO  TEST  CHART  No    2l 


1.0 


I.I 


1.25 


I- 


II— 

112 
'     Hi  3  6 


1.4 


[III  2.5 
III  2.2 

[2.0 
i.8 

1.6 


^  APPLIED  IIVMG^Jnc 

^T-  '653   East    War    :'f«et 

■'  -^  f^ochestef.   New    York        14609       USA 

('16)   482  -  C300  -  Phone 

—  ("'6"    2Se  -  5989  -  Fq, 


<;o 


'flic  (iiilck'ii   Poppy 


lie  went  into  the  pantry  and  hron^lit 

out  lea,  biscuits  and  canned  saliiMu.     1  U' 

melted  snow,  with  which,  lo  hrew  the  lea, 

I  hey   soon  had  a   tenipliui^-  uical.       I  he\- 

ate  heartily. 

It  was  now  late. 

■■^'on  will  slf.ep  there,"  .--  lid  i^ierre, 
])ointiny^  to  the  lounge. 

"And  you?'"  she  rejoined. 

"Oh.  I  will  rest  to-morrow.  To-niL^ht, 
I  must  watch  the  fire.  \'ou  see,  there  is 
danger  in  the  flying  sparks.  And  we 
can't  let  the  fire  die  out." 

So.  she  lay  down  on  the  couch  and  was 
soon  aslec]).  And  through  the  long  hours 
of  the  night  Pierre  stood  watch  over  the 
flaming  log  without  e\er  a  thought  to  the 
(ires  that  smouldered  in  his  hea.rt. 

Daybreak  bellowed  in  upon  thmi  bleak 
and  gray. 

It  was  late  when  Isabelle  awoke. 

Pierre  sat  beside  her,  his  chin  upon  his 
breast,  his  hands  hanging  limp. 

The  fireplace  glowed  red  and  warm 
w  ith  burning  coals. 


77/ c'  Golden  Popl^y 


91 


I'i>r    ;i    lono-    while    >lie    lav    U])<)n    the 
C'i'j.ch,  her  iiiind  adrift. 

The  wind  shrieked  without.     The  ^wirl 
of  the  .stDnu  shut  out  the  jjerspective. 

Slieg-a/ed  ui.on  the  peaceful  face  before 
her   and   j.M.ndered  the   stran,<4e  mettle  of 
the  vlcei)cr.     Certainly  all  men  were  not 
like  him.      If  only  he  had  broadened  out 
I'rom  his  narrow  circle.     If  he  had  taken 
tbe     eai,det"s     fli.jrht.       How     far     mi.oht 
he  not  have  ,2^one?     He  might  have  been 
a  le.ider  of  men;  one  of  the  j^reat.     How 
could  he  ever  hope  to  attain,  if  he  himself 
felt  no  spur  to  achievement?     If  only  he 
had  broken  free  of  his  fetters  and  chosen 
a  wider  ran.n^e  of  life.     As  it  was.  his  lot 
would  be  the  plouc^h,  a  wife,  children  and 
the  grave.    The  glory  which  might  be  his. 
the  fame  he  might   win.  that  would  live 
on    the   lips   of    future   generations,    was 
gone  the  way  of  the  fire-fly.  glimmering 
into  darkness. 

Pierre  stirred  in  his  seat  and  his  eyes 
opened  wide  and  rested  upon  her. 


')-i 


The  i.ohlcii  Tuppy 


"Bon  i')ur!"  he  laui;lH'<l.  "Vou  have 
rested  well  .■'" 

A  soft  tin^e  of  color  suffused  her 
cheeks. 

She  threw  aside  the  blankets  and  sat 
lip  on  the  edge  of  the  hunk. 

"Ves.  r  slept  soundly,"  she  <aid.  a\ert- 
ini^"  her  j^aze  to  the  window. 

Her  wealth  of  ^.^olden  hair  tumbled  in 
shimmering  waves  over  her  shoulders. 
Her  sleep-laden  eves  rested  al)stractedly 
on  the  dreary  scene  without.  She  was 
perplexed.  ')'•  iheir  situation.  I'ut,  an  in- 
n.-'.te  delic;ic\-  which  wa-  hers  ])rccludcd 
conlidi  ^K''.•-^  lo  her  co-ii])nnion.  Xot  from 
.-iii\-  iiioi!\e  I'orn  of  pruderw  P>ut  from 
a  liiL^iuT  -rii-e  of  Kiindne--^,  a  -hrinkin^;' 
tmwillin;4ne>>  to  olTend  or  wound  the  sen- 
sibilities of  others. 

Pierre  noted  her  mood.  lie  said  no 
!Hore :  but  buried  himself  with  the  fire  and 
the  melling  of  snow  for  their  morning 
ablutions  and  the  breakfast  tea. 

He  discovered  a  crock  o\  salt  jjork  in 
tlie  pantry. 


Tlic  Golden  Poppx 


93 


Isabelle  frie'l  slice  ^  ot"  the  meat  iii  an 
iron  skillet,  while  Pierre  brewed  the  tea 
and  made  ready  the  table. 

A  plentiful  supply  of  crackers  was  left, 
'i'hey  ate  witli  i^usto;  and  after  break- 
fast Pierre  filled  one  of  the  judge's  pipes 
with  tobacco  froru  a  stone  j,-ir  and  smoked. 
After  a  while  he  told  her  the  story  of 
Judge  Alourelte  and  how  the  cabin  came 
to  be  built. 

Mourette  had  taken  for  wife  a  young 
hal)itant  girl  from  St.  Gregoire,  when  he 
was  still  in  his  twenties.     The  Mourettes 
\\ere  moneyed  folk.     So,  the  judge,  then 
.1  fledgeling  lawyer,  took  his  bride  to  the 
!)resent  homestead  of  the  family,  an  im- 
ixising  mansion  on  the  outskirts  of  La- 
niartinette.     Within  a  few  years  he  l>e- 
came  the  father  of  three  daughters.     He 
iiad  risen  rapidly  in  his  profession  and 
was  apparently  a  man  to  be  envied,  when 
scandal  descended  upon  his  roof.     From 
the  day.  many  years  ago.  when  Mourette 
returned    home    unexpectedly    and    con- 
fronted the  mother  of  his  children  with 


94 


The  Li  olden   Tof'fy 


luT  .m'ilt,  1k'  mnintaincd  a  ^tony  silcncr 
in  his  house. 

He  came  and  went  as  a  stranj^er,  never 
«peakinp^. 

It  was  sh.ortly  after  the  (hscoxery  of 
his  wife's  nnfaithfiihiess  tliat  Mourette 
hiiih  the  cabin  they  were  now  in. 

Stan(Hn.ij:  on  the  edg-e  of  a  maple  forest 
owned  hy  him.  tlie  place  served  as  a  re- 
treat frt^m  the  world  durinj.^  the  holidays 
and  court  vacations. 

Here  he  surrounded  himself  with  his 
heloved  hooks,  his  favorite  pipes. 

In  the  course  of  time  he  was  elevated 
to  the  bench. 

His  hair  and  sweeping  beard  turned 
suowv  white. 

I  [e  walked  erect,  proud  and  thought- 
ful, through  the  streets,  along  the  coun- 
try roads,  always  alone.  The  children 
loved  him. 

His  daughters  grew  to  womanhood. 
They  were  fair  to  look  upon.  But  none 
had  wed. 

The  old  judge  had  shown  a  kindly  in- 


The  Golden  Popp\ 


95 


terest    in    Pierre    who,   as   a   youth,    had 
made  fre(|uent  visits  to  the  cabin. 

It  had  been  a  favorite  pastime  of  the 
growing  boy  to  ride  in  the  saddle  over  the 
countryside. 

Thus  he  had  come  to  the  cabin  and  thus 
he  had  known  the  judge. 

"T  never  heard  the  story  before,"  said 
Isabelle. 

"it  seems  they  all  have  their  tragedies. 
Who  would  ha\e  thought — " 

"When  he  died  some  months  ago," 
Pierre  went  on,  "no  will  was  fcnmd,  so 
little  did  he  seem  to  care." 

"T  knew  him,"  said  Isabelle.  "Me  would 
pat  me  nn  the  head  as  I  passed  him  on 
the  street.  He  always  carried  a  cane.  A 
lo\able  character." 

She  turned  to  the  window,  and  back 
to  Pierre. 

"What  shall  we  do?"  she  asked. 

"I  can't  say,"  he  rejoined,  and  fell  to 
thinking. 

"There  were  .snowshoes  here,"  he  said 
presently:    "Several  pairs  of  them." 


96 


The  Golden  Poppy 


'Oh,  in  that  event,"  she  exclaimed,  "we 
could  go.  But,"  she  added,  by  way  of 
afterthought,  "what  of  Charlemagne?" 

"We  haveti't  found  the  snowshoes  yet," 
he  smiled. 

Towards  noon  the  wind  abated. 

Soon  the  sky  cleared  and  the  sun  broke 
forth  on  the  hill  tops. 

"The  storm  is  over,"  said  the  girl. 

Pierr-e  had  swung  himself  aloft,  onto 
the  crossbeams,  where  boards  had  been 
laid  as  a  flooring  for  the  storage  of  sundrv 
articles  belonging  to  the  late  owner. 

"Here  they  are."  he  cried  presently, 
"l^now.shoes  and  moccasins!" 

"Dieu  mcrci!"  slie  exclaimed.  "We  can 
be  home  tonight." 

In  the  chc'-t  they  found  a  supply  of 
thick  woolen  stockings,  such  as  are  used 
by  the  habitants  in  wintry  Wv^ather.  The 
moccasins  and  snowshocs  were  in  good 
condition. 

They  were  soon  ready  for  the  home- 
ward tramp. 

In    the    lean-to    Pierre    found    Charle- 


The  Coldru  f'o 


ppy 


97 


inagne,  alert  and  anxious  to  depart.  lit 
re(|uired  no  iir^iii-;  |,„t  followed  his  mas- 
ter readily  into  the  open.  He  could, 
thought  l^ierre,  make  his  w; 
unhampered,  hack  to  L.- 
di.st, 


ly,  alone  am 


imarimette. 


ince  was.  perhaps,  five  miles. 
Dusk  had  settled  over  the  .silent  \vast< 


when    the    two    travel 
snowhoun( 


lers    turned    o 


ff   th( 


hitrhway  and  dra,L,'-,<>-ed  their 
weary  limhs  to  a  halt  in  the  doorway  oi 
the  homestead. 

Airs.  Lahelle  was  overjoyed  to  see  the 
returnin.j;  "children."  as  she  still  called 
them.  She  laid  meat  and  listened,  with 
wonderin-  eyes,  to  her  dauqhtcr's  recital 
of  their  experience.  Isahclle  decided  to 
wait  until  she  was  alone  with  '.or  mother 
i<>  tell  of  passin^^  the  ni-ht  in  the  cahin. 

i'liilippe  had  -one  m  Lamartineiie 
shortly  after  their  departure  for  the  Point ; 
and  had  not  yet  returned. 

Ernestine  sat  hy  the  lire,  a  hook  in  her 
la(),  and  listened  attentively  to  tlu-  ,•,„,. 
\  .'rsation. 


98 


TIic  Golden   ^oppy 


Nazaire  came  in  to  wann  hitnself  be- 
fore leaving. 

The  chores  were  done  and  Charle- 
niaj^^ne,  who  had  reached  home  ahead  of 
them,  was  none  the  worse  for  the  exj)o- 
sure.     Where  had  they  spent  the  nij^^ht  ? 

At  a  hiuise  aloni^  the  way.  Isahelle  has- 
tened to  reply.  Tliey  were  not  lialf  way 
wlien  the  storm  had  made  it  im|)Ossihle  to 
])roceed  further. 

"I  see,"  said  Xazaire,  hghting  his  pipe. 

He  pulled  down  his  "luciue"  o\'er  his 
ears  and  jerked  the  red  sash  snui^  about 
his  waist. 

His  bulbous  eyes  swept  furtivelv  over 
the  little  grou])  as  he  said: 

"I  was  thinking  ii  might  be  a  run-awa\- 
match." 

Krne'^tine  glanced  (|uickly  from  Pierre 
to  Isahelle,  who  remained  silent. 

"It  would  be  a  shame,"  persisted  Xa- 
zaire,  enjoying  his  own  \,it,  "to  cheat 
Monsieur  le  docteur  of  his  bride." 

He  leered  evilly  as  he  sj)oke.     Rut  his 


s 


I  he  Col  dill  I'oppy 


9) 


I 


words  went  unlieeded.     He  reddened  .md 
coTU-Iuded  sheepishly: 

l",h  I)ien.  I  imist  be  off.     I  will  he  over 
early  in  the  niornini:^.     Bon  soir." 

"Ron  soir,"  said  Pierre,  more  in  a  spirit 
of  thankfulnes';  than  of  hrotherlv  love. 


CliAf'll-.R    i:i.K\'I'\T. 


I  Ik-  Wdimii   were  now   at   work  on  the 
iroussc.'iu. 

Pliiloinciic  came  owv  lu  ilu-  uionnnLj. 
after  sceini^'  to  the  dmies  of  lier  ineiin^re. 
and  retiiaiiu'd  initil  well  aloni^  in  the  dav. 
when  she  went  home  to  prepare  snpper 
for  Xazaire. 

She  was  a  lall.  red-liaired.  an.i,niiar 
woman  with  small,  s(|mntin^  eves  and 
strais^ht,  t!iindipi)ed  m.nitli. 

Slic  kne\'-  the  chronology  of  Lamartin 
ette  better  than  did  the  Cure  himself,  who 
had  i)een   the  shepherd  of  the   Hock   for 
more  than  forty  vears. 

She  reveled  in  the  ,i;ossip  of  the  villa^nv 
She  journeyed  from  house  to  house,  sew- 
ini::  l>y  the  day,  her  cars  ever  alert,  her 
eyes  oii  the  (|ui  \ive,  her  ton.^ue  eagcriv 

[lOUl 


7    //{'       (  lOili,-':        I  ' 


I'    >l 


ill '|icii- mil;  t'l  llii'  iiiriMiis  tin-  l;ili-l  iR'\v>>, 
tlir  nil  I  -1  rt'ciMit  scind.i!. 

It  was  m  tin-  |n.T-nn  uf  ['Iiilmiu  ne  that 
licr  u(»rtli\  lord  rcicivnl  llic  sliiimlii^  of 
Ills  anil»ilii'ii  tiir  a  IxMicr  li^iiiii  waij^f. 
Shi-  lU'vcT  tMfW  wcarv  nl  Ik  r  ih  ir.iiii"iatiii:i 
of  l'liili|i]tr 

(  )ii  tin."  coiitrar\,  -lu-  iiiadv  it  tlu'  sauce 
of  liicir  iiicaLiia-  meal-,  tlu-  sin^'  soiiLi', 
nc\cr-eii(liii,iL;-  refrain  of  their  httle  hxe'-. 

She  would  return,  weary  and  hitter, 
troiii  her  da\'s  lahor  in  the  hnusrs  of 
plenty  and  cook  the  coar-e  fare  for  their 
exenin^i^  meal. 

While  Xa/aire,  his  eq-L^-like  head  l)ent 
low  o\er  the  ])late,  ate  his  salted  pork  and 
l)Otatoe'<.  and  sucked  cautious  drau.^diis  of 
hot  tea,  Philoniene  regaled  him  with  the 
newest  morsel  of  .gossip  frf)ni  the  \illage. 

The  wretched  xjualor  of  their  home 
was  ne\er  forgotten;  tlie  sceminq'  hope- 
lessness of  their  ;i(l\a,r.cin,<^  life. 

By  direct  assault  or  l.y  careful  allusion 
she  would  dri\e  home  her  points,  with 
leathering  force,  until  the  torpid  hrain  of 


I 


102 


The  Golden  Poppy 


Xazaire  was  whipped  into  a  blind,  unrea- 
soning rage. 

"Xe\or  mind!"  he  would  exclaim,  in  a 
thick,  g-.iteral  voice.  "It  shall  not  always 
be  so.  Some  day.  he  will  pay  me — the 
good-for-nothing !" 

"lUn.  when?"  ^he  would  nag  on. 

"When  the  time  comes  to  pay,  he  will 
pay.  I  am  not  asleep,  as  he  thinks.  My 
fine  brother  will  talk  to  me.  There  will 
come  a  day  when  he  cannot  put  me  off. 
I  am  watching.  I  am  no  fool  of  his.  I 
will  open  his  eyes,  one  of  these  fine  days." 

"But,  how  are  you  going  to  do  it?" 
Philomene  would  persist. 

"How?  I  don't  know  how.  It  1  knew. 
I  would  not  be  sitting  here,  up  to  mv  nose 
in  debt.  But,  just  the  same,  it  will  come. 
Wait  and  see     Wait  and  see,  I  tell  you!" 

It  was  upon  her  return  from  the  home 
of  Philippe  I.abelle  that  she  would  wax 
eloquent  in  her  attacks.  She  j^layed  upon 
the  envy  of  Nazaire  with  cunning  art, 
never  failing  to  accom])lish  her  end. 

"If  your  brt)ther  Philippe,"  she  would 


Thr  Golden  Poppy 


103 


begin,  "was  the  proper  sort, — "  or:  "now, 
if  Philippe  had  the  heart  of  a  stone—" 
and  again :  "of  course  there  are  brothers 
and  brothers — " 

"To  be  sure,"  she  would  concede,  "his 
goods  are  his  own ;  and  we  have  no  right 
to  share  them.  But,  why  does  lie  refuse 
to  pay  for  honest  toil?  Why  (Mes  he  turn 
a  dea*  ear  to  common  justice?  Where 
could  he  find  a  man  to  take  your  place? 
Does  he  suppose  we  will  endure  it  for- 
ever?" 

"Listen  to  me,  bonne  femme,"  Xazaire 
would  confide  for  the  hundredth  time, 
"vou  know  why  I  have  chosen  to  remain, 
not  to  go  with  Duquette,  who  has  been 
wanting  nie?  Because,  so  long  as  I  am 
here  I  have  a  hold  on  Philippe.  If  J 
should  leave,  I  would  be  less  than  a 
stranger.  It  would  not  be  wise  for  me  to 
make  a  change — until  I  settle  my  account 
with  him." 

At  this  he  would  wink  an  eye  sagely 
and  stare  across  the  table  at  his  wife,  who 


J04 


77k'  (i olden  I'(>/''l^y 


sought  in  his  words  some  hidden  promise 
o\  lietter  days. 

i  hus  did  they  harter  alon;^,  hare  nf  the 
world's  gifts,  hoping  for  the  riiorrows  a; 
they  came  and  went,  their  hands  out- 
stretched for  the  crumhs  of  pity. 

Pierre  and  Isahelle  spent  the  long  win- 
ter evenings  he  fore  the  fireplace. 

He  would  read  aloud  from  a  hook, 
while  Isahelle  and  her  mother  added  a 
touch  here  or  there  to  some  item  oi  the 
trousseau.  The  trousseau,  that  was 
growing  more  wonderful  each  dav. 

Then,  laying  aside  the  hook  and  the 
garments  of  the  hride  to  he.  they  would 
watch  the  fitful  sarahand  of  the  flames. 

And  when  the  hour  was  late  and  a 
great  stillness  lay  over  the  moon-hathed 
snow.,,  they  rose  and  went  their  separate 
ways. 

Philippe  Lahelle  had  undergone  a 
marked  change  of  late.  Since  the  home- 
coming of  Isahelle,  he  had  spent  most  of 
his  leisure  time  in  the  village. 

'■|  ;i  \tMi\e  Duclos"  held  open  hou.se  for 


The  Golden  I'oppy 


105 


all  who  had  money  and  the  inclination  to 
spend  it.  She  was  impartial  with  her 
favors ;  but  leaned  to  the  best  filled  purse, 
the  most  liberal  hand.  She  was  you*i<^ 
and  buxom,  with  raven  hair,  red  lijxs  and 
black,  flashing  eyes. 

She  stood  in  the  bad  graces  of  the  Cure 
who  had  more  than  once  condemned  her 
for  leading  astray  otherwise  good  hus- 
bands and  fathers  of  the  })arish. 

Many  were  the  courtiers  who  paid  her 
homage.  And  not  tlic  le.-ist  among  them 
was  FMiilippe  Labcllc. 

Wild  scenes  were  not  uncommon  at  the 
little  inn.  There  were  games  of  chance; 
and  bloody  encounters ;  lewd  songs ;  and 
dancing;  and  a  loud  display  of  vulgar  wit. 
Loose  women  of  the  village  frequented 
the  place.  Young  men  went  there  to 
drink  and  make  red  love.  La  veuve  Du- 
clos  watched  the  piastres  pouring  in;  and 
smiled.  This  was  her  cho.sen  life.  She 
was  a  success.  She  was  happy.  The 
Cure?  Let  him  rant!  Was  he  not,  him- 
self, begging  alms?    Was  he  not  in  biisi- 


io6 


The  Golden  Poppy 


ness  too?  Parblcu!  Who  could  nian.igc 
to  live  without  money?  And  if  the  men. 
her  patrons,  were  satisfied,  what  liad  ilie 
Cure  to  say  about  it? 

So,  Philippe,  who  found  no  pleasure  in 
his  house,  sought  it  elsewhere,  never 
questioning  the  price. 

Night  after  night,  he  came  home,  long 
after  the  others  had  retired,  and  climbed 
the  stairs  uiisieadily  to  his  room. 

Then.  Pierre,  who  had  been  reading, 
would  steal  noiselessly  out  of  the  house 
and  make  his  way  to  the  barns,  where  he 
ministered  to  the  neglected  horse  of  the 
returning  master. 

He  had  given  more  thought  to  his  voca- 
tion since  he  came  to  realize  that  Isabelle 
was  not  for  him.  His  plans  had  gone 
awry.  He  would  leave  the  farm.  He  had 
a  great  desire  to  flee  his  memories.  He 
had  turned  the  matter  in  his  mind  n.any 
times ;  always  to  the  same  conclusion :  She 
had  plighted  her  troth  to  another.  He 
would  noc  seek  to  have  her  break  it. 
He  dreaded  the  approaching  day  when 


The  Golden  Poppy 


107 


>lie  would  go  forth;  the  day  lat  would 
ineati  so  much  of  happiness  to  her. 

But  he  did  not  find  it  in  his  heart  to 
hlanie  her. 

I-'or.  she  had  not  known  the  hopes  that 
had  been  his. 

'  Le  had  not  told  her  of  his  love. 

The  fault  was  his  own. 

PfUt.  oh,  the  heartache  of  renunciation! 
The  wild,  unhealing  loneliness  that  must 
be  his  through  the  years ! 

Slowly  the  winter  passed. 

In  the  wanton  April  winds  the  snow 
hills  melted  away,  spelling  brook  and 
creek  into  roaring  rivers.  The  dull  dun 
of  the  fields  turned  a  tender  green.  Gold 
flowers  spangled  the  earth.  Returning 
songsters  carolled  of  bliss  and  love;  and 
built  their  little  houses  in  the  budding 
trees.  Spring  in  garlands  of  laughing 
bloom  came  on  the  wings  of  May. 


CllAPri'-.R    rWI'IA'F.. 


Slie  stood  l)cf(>i-c  lli'j  ancient  pier-las^ 
and  ga/ed  upon  a  lovely  bride. 

The  snowy  folds  of  her  wetlding  gown 
fell  about  the  exquisite  mould  of  her  form 
with  the  symmetry  of  Grecian  grace.  The 
rise  and  fall  of  the  rounded  bosom,  the 
coral  tint  of  her  cheeks  told  plainly  that 
an  hour  was  nigh  of  passing  moment  in 
her  young  life. 

On  her  ',  irow  was  a  wreath  of  orange 
blossoms;  and  in  her  hand  she  held  a  bou- 
(piet  of  lilies-of-the-valley.  symbolic  of 
herself  in  the  mystic  purity  of  maiden- 
hood. 

All  about  her  were  cherished  memories 
of  her  childhood.  They  were  rushing  in 
upon  her  now.  pleading,  caressing,  tu- 
multuous. 

She  was  leaving  all  beliind.     I'orsaking 

[losi 


77/ r  Cohioi  Pof^/'x 


ICH) 


tliese  loved  \()ices  of  the  ])ast.  Abandon- 
ing the  true  for  the  untried. 

Would  she  find  a  new.  a  greater  liapjii- 
ness?  What  wmld  it  all  come  to  mean 
in  the  end? 

Through  the  open  window  the  warm, 
scented  breath  of  June  wafted  into  the 
room,  stirring  the  white  mull  curtains 
lazily.  From  a  field  nearby  came  the  song 
of  the  whetstone  (M1  the  scythe.  Swallows 
twittered  in  the  eaves  above  tiie  windows. 
A  distant  cow-bell  tinkled  softly  on  the 
still  air. 

She  was  alone.  Why  had  her  mother 
gone?  She  felt,  of  a  sudden,  very  lonely 
—deserted.  A  great  wa\e  of  emotion 
rose  about  her.  whehm'ng  her.  crush- 
ing her  down.  She  felt  the  tears  dam- 
ming her  e}es  and  sought  hard  to  stay 
them.  There  were  footsteps  in  the  hall 
without.  She  turned  to  the  open  door- 
way. 

Pierre  was  standing  on  the  threshold, 
his  strong  fare  alight  with  a  strange  fire. 


no 


77/ r  a  olden  Poppy 


She  smiled  hravely  at  tlie   friend  uf  her 
cliildhood. 

"Come  in,  Pierre,"  she  said. 

lie  was  dressed  in  a  suit  of  black,  which 
accentuated  the  pallor  of  his  face. 

"I  have  come  to  make  my  adieux,  Isa- 
belle,"  he  began. 

His  hand  went  out  to  her,  as  he  spoke. 

She  felt  it  grasp  her  own  and  suddenly 
her  throat  pained  and  her  eyes  swam. 

"I,  too,  am  going  away,"  he  went  on, 
after  a  pause.  '"I  am  going  to  become 
a  Marist." 

"A  Brother!" 

••Yes." 

For  a  while  tliey  gazed  at  each  other 
in  silence. 

He  smiled  a  little  and  released  her  hand. 

•'I  don't  understand,"  she  said  h  lally, 
with  an  efTort  at  composure. 

She  was  beginning  to  fear  that  she  un- 
derstood too  well. 

.\nd  now,  with  the  swift  impulse  of 
vouth,  she  spoke  again. 


The  Golden  Poppy 


III 


"Then — y  m  cared!"  she  said  in  a  whis- 
per.    "\'()U — really — cared!" 

He  made  no  reply.  But  she  read  the 
answer  in  his  eyes. 

"I  never  knew,"  she  spoke,  more  to  her- 
self than  to  him.     Then: 

"You  never  led  me  to  think — " 

"I  fear  I  took  too  much  for  granted.  I 
imagined  we  were  still  the  boy  and  girl 
of  other  days. 

There  was  a  tell-tale  moistness  in  his 
eyes  as  he  added : 

"I  thought  you  were  still  my  golden 
poppy.    You  remember?" 

"Oh,  yes;  as  if  it  were  but  yesterday. 
Scarlet  poppies  were  nodding  everywhere 
in  the  wheat  field.  Off  by  itself  was  a 
great  yellow  flower,  seemingly  deserted. 
You  plucked  it  and,  saying  it  looked  like 
me,  called  it  a  golden  poppy;  and  carried 
it  back  to  the  house." 

"I  still  have  it,  in  one  of  my  books.  I 
shall  always  keep  it." 

From  below  came  the  sounds  of  laugh- 
ter, where  the  guests  were  gathering  for 


I IJ 


77/('  (ioldni   /'"/'/'V 


the  journey  to  tlic  cluircli.     Tlie  voice  of 
Philippe  ranjj^  loud  al'oxu  the  others. 

On  the  hifj^hway,  a  lout   shouted  com 
luands  to  a  yoke  of  oxen.     A  crow  ca\vc<i 
brazenly  in  a  cornfield,  nearby.     Someone 
was  mountinj.:^  the  stairs.     Mamman   La- 
belle,  no  doubt. 

The  woman  paled  percej)tiiily. 

She  extended  her  hrmd  to  him. 

"Good-bye,  Pierre." 

"Adieu,  isabelle." 

Their  hands  were  >lill  ela-^ped  when 
Mrs.  Labelle  entered  tiie  room. 

"They  are  waiting,  me.",  enfants."  said 
the  mother.  "Doctor  Randon  seems  a  bit 
upset.  The  journey,  I  presume.  Are  you 
quite  ready,  dear  child?" 

"Yes,  Mamman." 

She  stepped  to  the  door,  and,  ttirninp: 
back,  cast  a  long,  sweeping  glance  over 
the  room. 

Then  she  was  gone. 

Randon  was  waiting  at  the  foot  of  the 
long  stairway,  the  guests  gathered  about 
him,     His  face  was  drawn  and  pale.     He 


The  (joldcii  I'oppy 


11.^ 


wore  a  Prince  Albert  suit  with  a  houton- 
niere  of  white  geranium. 

His  face  relaxed  into  a  smile  as  Isahcllc 
came  down  the  stairs  to  meet  him.  He 
took  her  arm  and  led  her  out  into  the  June 
day,  down  the  gravel  pathway  to  a  lil.ick 
line  of  cars  that  were  waiting. 

On  the  broad  parvis  of  the  cliurch,  vil- 
lagers stood  in  groups,  awaiting  the  ar- 
rival of  the  bridal  party. 

The  wedding  oi'  Isabtlle  wa.--  an  event. 
It  was  a  luckv  groom  who  took  to  his  bed 
so  beautiful  a  bride.  And  then,  Philippe 
Labelle,  the  father,  was  a  man  of  means — 
and  a  shrewd  one  at  that.  Sacrc!  the 
young  couple  would  not  have  to  want  for 
the  necessities,  to  say  the  least.  And.  be- 
sides, the  young  man  had  a  profession, 
lie  was  a  doctor.  Un  homme  instruit. 
Parbleu!  Some  people  were  born  with  a 
siKer  spoon. 

Children  lined  the  long  boardwalk  that 
lay  between  the  street  and  the  church. 
The  main  door  of  the  edifice  stood  open. 
The  fluttering  flames  of  wax  tapers  might 


Il.J 


'I  he  (,<'l(lnt   /'"/^/^v 


1)C  seen  about  a  hollow  s(|uar-c.  in  which 
had  reposed,  hut  a  few  moments  ago,  the 
remains  of  a  departed  >oul.  'i'he  sacristan 
was  about  to  remove  the  hlack  wooden 
candelahra  and  the  low.  flat  repository  on 
which  had  rested  the  faitiiful  servant  on 
his  way  to  the  j^ravc. 

The  man  went  about  his  work  in  thor- 
f)Ut^h  fashion,  with  no  sliow  of  emotion; 
without  a  tear  of  sorrow  for  the  dead,  a 
smile  of  gladness  for  the  living. 

The  same  hand  that  had  sprinkled  hya- 
sope  upon  the  dead  would  soon  unite  the 
living  in  bonds  of  love. 

There  was  a  shifting  of  feet  in  the 
crowd  when  the  cars  came  to  a  stop  before 
the  church. 

A?  the  cortege  passed  slowly  up  the 
boardwalk,  silence  fell  over  the  craning 
throng. 

Isabelle  was  beautiful.  She  was  smil- 
ing happily.  Randon  walked  beside  her. 
Th.ere  was  a  touch  of  hauteur  in  the  poise 
of  his  head.     He  appeared  quite  at  ease. 

As  the  couple  passed  into  the  edifice, 


The  Golden   Toph' 


1 1 


the    villa[;ers    surged    through    the    side 
doors,  taking  seats. 

The  Cure  St.  Georges,  assisted  by  two 
acolytes,  stood  waiting  at  the  coninuinion 
rail.  The  reading  of  the  ritual  consumed 
hut  a  few  nioincnts.  And  now  it  was 
over. 

The  Cure  was  snuling. 
A    subdued    mingling    of    voices    came 
from  the  pews  near  the  railing,  which  the 
children,    in    their   eagerness   to   see   the 
bride,  had  invaded. 

Outside,  in  the  glad,  warm  nir  of  June, 
Isabelle  looked  uj)  into  her  husband's  face 
anil  smiled 

'"What  a  day  for  a  wedding!"  she  said. 
A  great  feast  was  laid  when  they 
reached  home.  There  were  stuffed  tur- 
keys; and  suckling  pigs;  and  platters  of 
fried  chicken  and  squab.  And  there  were 
potpies,  such  as  only  the  habitants  can 
bake ;  and  deep  dishes  of  vegetables ;  and 
wonderful  sauces.  There  v.ere  pies;  and 
puddings ;  and  French  pastries ;  and  ices ; 
and    fruits    from    Montreal.      Red    wine 


iir. 


TJic  Ciohlcu  I\>pp\' 


C^urglcd  merrily  out  of  old  bottles.  And 
[)ortly  jugs  of  ale  stood  about  on  the 
tables,  like  jolly,  fat  monks,  brimming 
with  bnnhoniie.  There  were  great  arm- 
fuls  of  flowers  from  the  garden,  gathered 
by  ]\Iamman  Labclle  and  arranged  by  her 
loving  hands.  And,  over  the  voices,  the 
■rounds  of  harp  and  violin.  There  was  a 
dance.  And  much  merrymaking  far  into 
the  night. 

But  there  were  ihree  who  had  taken 
their  departure  early  in  the  evening. 

Randon  and  his  bride  were  passengers 
on  an  eastbound  train. 

Pierre  had  closed  the  gates  of  the  world 
behind  him. 


(MAPTKR  TMIRTI-:E^X. 


"Vou  see,"  said  Philoinene  to  Nazaire, 
over  their  soup,  the  day  after  the  wed- 
ding, "your  brother  Phihppe  had  plenty 
of  money  to  S(|uander  on  good  wines  and 
line  things  to  eat.  Rven  the  music  was 
there.  And  la  Boudreau  is  telling  every- 
one who  will  lend  an  ear  that  he  spent 
no  less  than  two  hundred  dollars  last  night 
l( lasting  the  \illage  al  la  veuve  Duclos'. 
Plenty  of  money,  yes.  But,  mark  me,  my 
man,  the  pighead  is  in  a  fair  vay  to  land 
in  the  ditch!" 

Xazaire  glanced  up  from  his  soup  and 
their  eyes  met. 

"i  have  been  thinking  the  same,  my- 
self," he  said.  "He  is  going  a  devilish 
gait.     He  can't  keep  it  m.)." 

"And  ha\c  \'>u  hIm)  thought  how  long 
it  took  vou  and  how  hard  you  had  to  toil 

11171 


ii8 


77;  ('  C olden  Poppy 


so  that  he  could  have  that  two  hundrea 
dollars  to  toss  over  the  bar  and  play  the 
grand  monsieur?" 

"Well  said,  bonne  femnie.  Sacre,  you 
have  spoken  the  truth!  What  then?  Go 
on!" 

"That's  it — what  then?  I  can't  say. 
But,  one  thing  is  sure,  we  must  use  our 
heads.  Not  sit  here,  twirling  our  thumbs, 
until  it  is  too  late.  Do  you  know  what 
I  thought  of  doing?" 

"No— What?" 

"Well,  maybe  it  would  do  no  good.  But, 
just  the  same,  I  have  almost  decided  to 
>;ee  the  Cure  and  lay  the  case  before  him. 
He  is  the  shepherd  of  the  flock.  He 
preaches  sermons  telling  us  to  be  good,  to 
be  charitable,  to  gi\e  to  the  Church,  to 
love  the  poor.  And  I  thought  I  would  ask 
him  for  his  opinion  of  a  rich  man  who 
denied  his  poor  brother  a  decent  wage. 
.Maybe  the  Cure  would  not  tolerate  such 
injustice.  He  might  take  the  matter  in 
hand  and  bring  the  great  man  to  time." 

"F.h,    Bon    Dieu!"    exciaimecl    Xazaire. 


The  Golden  Puppy 


iiy 


striking  the  table  with  his  fist,  "it  is  the 
wisdom  of  books  you  speak.  It  is  mar- 
vellous to  hear  you.  When  is  this  to  be — 
to-morrow — to-day?    Tell  me!" 

Philomene  drew  a  corner  of  her  blue 
gingham  apron  across  her  thin,  straight 
line  of  mouth  and,  picking  up  a  tin  tea 
spoon,  played  a  harsh  tattoo  on  the  ba  e 
wood  of  the  table. 

Finally  she  spoke. 

"To-morrow,"  she  announced  with  cool 
finality. 

"To-morrow?" 

"Yes." 

"You  will  go  to  the  parish  house?" 

"Xo.  Better  still,  the  Cure  will  come 
here.  He  will  see  how  we  are  forced  to 
live  through  the  meanness  of  the  great 
Philippe  Labelle. 

"But,"  rejoined  Nazaire,  "the  Cure 
does  not  make  such  calls.  Now,  if  you 
were  sick — " 

"That  is  it :  I  will  be  sick.  To-morrow 
he  is  to  take  the  last  sacrament  to  old 
Goyette.      He    will    pass   by    the   house. 


l-'O 


llic  LjoUIcii  I'otty 


When  he  is  driving  hack  from  the  sick 
call,  I  will  be  at  the  window  and  call  him. 
The  rest  will  be  easy.  I  had  a  fainting 
spell.  I  was  alone  and  afraid.  I  had  seen 
him  go  by  the  house  and  knew  he  would 
be  back.  So,  1  waited  at  the  window. 
Then,  I  will  tell  him  what  I  want  him  to 
know." 

"You  astonish  me!"  gasped  Nazaire. 

Then,  the  afterth.ought : 

"I  am  almost  afraid  of  you.  I  believe 
you  could  send  a  man  to  the  gallow>  if 
you  once  set  out  to  do  it." 

He  stared  down  stupidly  at  his  pea 
soup,  saying  no  more. 

Presently,  he  dropped  his  spoon  into  the 
bowl  and  rose  from  the  table. 

"Where  are  you  g(  ng?"  asked  I'hilo- 
mene. 

"To  the  fields,"  he  replied. 

Tn  the  doorway  he  turned  his  face  to 
her. 

She  had  gone  back  to  her  soup. 

"And  if  you^r  plan  falls  through,  if  the 
Cure  siiould  refu.sc  to  act,  what  then?" 


I  lie  (ji'lilcii  i'cJ'I'y 


iji 


Her  round  little  eyes  glinted  ilre  as  she 
snapped: 

"Are  you  not  old  enoui^h  to  use  vour 
wits?  If  my  plan  L^oes  wrong,  can  you 
not  find  one  that  will  do?  He  is  your 
brother;  not  mine.     Remember  that!" 

On  the  morrow,  she  proceeded  to  the 
execution  of  her  schenic,  by  removing  to 
the  attic  such  articles  as  might  serve  to 
modify,  in  the  mind  of  the  Cure,  her  re])- 
resentations  of  abject  poverty.  This  done, 
she  put  the  house  in  order  for  the  day  and 
sat  down  by  the  window  to  wait. 

As  the  little  clock  on  the  shelf  ticked  off 
the  succeeding  minutes,  she  grew  to  a 
high  state  of  susjicnse. 

She  wouM  ri>c  and  peer,  this  way  and 
tiiat,  down  the  long  country  road,  for 
some  sign  of  the  e\])cctcd  vehicle. 

Then,  chagrined  with  each  disappoint- 
ment, she  would  pace  the  rude  plank  floor, 
back  and  forth,  like  one  imprisoned  in  a 
cell. 

The  minutes  dragged  into  h(»urs. 


I  22 


The  Golden  Poppy 


She  peeled  the  potatoes  and  put  on  the 
soup  for  Nazaire's  dinner. 

Then,  back  to  the  window  again ;  and  to 
her  pacing,  back  and  forth,  hack  and 
forth. 

Sometimes,  she  would  stoop  to  straight- 
en the  corner  of  a  strip  of  rag-carpet  at 
her  feet.  Sometimes,  a  vivid  chromo  on 
the  wall  received  a  hurried,  troubled 
touch. 

The  fire  sputtered  and  smoked.  She 
could  not  bring  the  water  to  boil.  Would 
tlie  Cure  never  come ! 

She  piled  more  v/ood  onto  the  smokir  g 
fire  and  fetched  a  can  of  petroleum  from 
the  clr<^et  under  the  attic  stairs.  She 
poured  the  oily  liquid  on  the  green  fire 
wood.  As  the  stream  fell  into  the  stove, 
she  heard  the  little  bell  announcing  the 
;i])proach  of  the  \'ialicum. 

The  Cure  at  last ! 

A  great  burst  of  fire  belched  up  to  the 
raftered  ceiling,  licking  her  face  and 
singeing  her  hair. 


The  Golden  I'opf^y 


i-'3 


The  heat  of  the  flames  shut  off  her 
breath. 

She  staggered  to  the  open  window  and 
fell  face  downward  over  the  sill. 

When  she  opened  her  eyes  again,  she 
was  lying  on  the  bed.  the  Cure  beside  her, 
bathing  her  face  with  oil. 

Bradeau,  the  sacristan,  his  mouth 
agape,  stood  by,  holding  in  his  hand  the 
little  bell  that  told  the  habitants  the  Bon 
Dieu  was  passing. 

Soon,  Nazaire  lumbered  in  from  the 
fields. 

"Seigneur!"  he  exclaimed,  "our  lot  was 
not  bad  enough  without  this." 

"Hush,  my  son."  spoke  the  Cure.  ■'\'()u 
must  not  have  such  talk.  The  Bon  Dicu 
tries  those  he  loves  best." 

"Then,  he  must  lov:  us  best  of  all," 
groaned  Philomene. 

"You  are  not  badly  burned,"  rejoined 
the  priest.  "The  oil  will  draw  the  fire 
from  the  burn.  In  a  few  hours'  time  you 
will  be  as  well  a*^  ever.  You  will  not 
even  require  a  doctor:  another  evidence. 


124 


I  hr   (lohicii    I'l'l'py 


tncs  enfant s,   that    Mo   watches  over   all 
Stay   with   your   wife,    Xazaire.      1    shall 
stop  on  my  way  hack  from  the  Goyettes." 

When  he  returned,  an  hour  later,  he 
came  into  the  hou^e  alone. 

It  was  some  time,  hefore  Ik-  departed, 
alheit  he  was  noted  for  ilie  hrevity  of  his 
visits. 

As  he  stepped  stiffly  into  the  carriage 
and  drove  off,  the  lean,  furrowed  face  was 
set  hard  and  ^rim.  He  would  see  Philippe 
I  ahellr ! 


CHAF'TI'R  I<'()URTKP:N. 


1  he  Cure  (lf('!<!r(l  t(t  await  the  oppor- 
tunity of  a  chance  meeting-  with  Fhihppe. 

lie  reasoneil  that  in  this  manner  his 
j)Osition  would  be  made  to  apj)ear  less 
hostile;  his  interference  more  casual. 

I  fe  was  no  mean  diplomat. 

And,  thouj:::h  quite  capable  of  swinging 
the  cudgel  of  his  authority  over  his  flock, 
he  was  averse  to  so  doing  when  a  milder 
course  of  action  would  accomplish  his  end. 

One  afternoon,  a  few  days  later,  he 
was  reading  his  breviary  in  the  parish 
house  garden,  when  Philippe  came  strut- 
ting by.  Labelle  was  the  first  to  speak, 
which  fell  in  with  the  plans  o*"  the  Ahlie. 

"I'oii  jour,  Monsieur  le  Curc\'"  greeted 
Philippe. 

"Ron  jour,  iMonsieur  Labelle." 
[125] 


\J(> 


'1  he  Cold  en  PotPy 


"It  is  fine  weather  we  arc  having,  n'est- 

ce  pas?" 

"Yes.     It  will  niean  tine  crops  for  the 

habitants." 

"Well,"  said  I'hilipi)e,  "if  the  others  are 
in  the  same  fix  as  myself,  they  will  need 
the  fme  crops,  to  carry  them  over." 

The  .\l)l)c's  eyes  went   wide. 

"I  don*l  understand  you."  he  rejoined. 
"We  have  every  evidence  of  the  prosper- 
ity of  the  habitants — that  is,  of  those  who 
own  farms.  True.  I  cannot  say  as  much 
for  the  farm  hands." 

Already  they  were  on  the  terrain  of  the 
struggle.  Philippe  knew  at  once  that  the 
shaft  had  been  meant  for  him.  But  the 
Cure  ga\e  him  no  time  to  parry.  He 
added  quickly: 

"I  was  called  into  the  home  of  your 
brother  Nazaire,  some  days  ago.  The 
wife  had  had  an  accident.  I  happened 
along  in  time  to  lend  assistance.  I  was 
shocked  at  the  poverty  of  the  place.  It  is 
a  disgrace  to  the  parish;  to  me,  the  Cure, 
and,  above  all,  to  one  of  its  most  well-to-do 


The  Golden  Poppy 


12: 


parishioners,  yourself,  Monsieur  Labelle. 
I  daresay  your  horses  get  more  out  of 
life  than  do  those  wretched  people,  who 
eat  out  of  your  hands.  Ordinarily.  I  do 
not  meddle  in  such  matters;  hut,  in  a  way. 
you  suggested  the  subject  yourself." 

Philippe  turned  a  deep  red.  He  had 
been  taken  unawares.  Attacked  from  am- 
bush, as  it  were.  He  was  at  a  loss  for 
words.  His  thoughts  clashed  in  panic. 
He  wished  to  ije  away,  to  end  the  encoun- 
ter. But,  with  good  grace.  It  must  be 
done  with  good  grace.     He  stammered: 

"I  never  go  to  my  brother's  house.  I 
don't  know  how  they  conduct  their  me- 
nage. But,  rest  assured  1  shall  look  into 
il.  If  they  are  in  want,  something  must 
be  done,  ot  course.  I  shall  see.  I  shall 
-•^ce.  I  thank  you  for  speaking.  I  knew 
nothing  of  ii.  Au  revoir,  Monsieur  le 
Cure.    .\u  re\oir." 


Days  passed. 

In  the  home  of  Nazaire,  conjecture  was 


uS 


7, ,'  (loittni  rofty 


rife.  Far  into  the  night  the  two  conspira- 
tors vvoukl  sit  ponderiiii^  the  oiitcv.im-  f)f 
their  coup.  What  wmild  the  Cure  say  1" 
I'hihpiK'?  And  what  defen  e  would 
I'hihj-pe  lia\e  to  make?     None,  lo  he  sure. 

Ihit,  he  would  lie;  for  lie  could  he  his 
wa\'  into  1  lea\i'n. 

And  tin-  ('in"e  nii^ht  helie\e  him. 

lint,  then,  no;  for  Monsieur  St.  Georges 
had  seen  how  they  were  forced  to  live. 

All.    that    was   a   hrilliant    hit    of   head 

woik — hrini.^in!.;    the    ("nre    to   the   lion  .c. 

\here   he   ct)uld    see    for    himself.      How 

many  would  have  thought  of  it?    Xot  one 

in  ten  thousand. 

TlicN'  v.ouid  drift  into  speculation  on 
their  future  life,  when  the  increased  wage 
would  permit  (hem  to  live  as  thev  should. 

N'azaire  would  have  a  horse  and  car- 
riage. A  sleigh,  with  fur  rohcs  and  hells. 
They  could  then  go  ahout.  Sundays  and 
evenings,  hke  other  people.  Me  had  al- 
ways wanted  these  things.  People  who 
lived  in  the  canipagne  should  have  them. 
I'^lse.  why  live  in  the  country? 


7/(1'  Croldi'n  I'opfy 


I  2> ) 


M 


Alread)  IMiilomeiic  had  visited  the 
stores  at  Iwiniartincttc  and  St.  John's. 
She  had  her  eye  on  a  piece  of  black  silk, 
which  she  had  .seen  acros  the  river.  It 
was  priced  rather  hijj^h,  she  would  tell  Xa- 
zaire;  i)ut,  the  more  expensive  ju^oods  were 
always  the  cheapest  in  the  end. 

The  dress  would  be  trimmed  with  white 
satin ;  and  she  could  have  special  buttons 
made  with  the  cuttinj^s  from  the  silk. 

She  had  not  found  a  hat  to  suit  her  in 
any  of  the  stores. 

It  might  be  that  she  would  have  to  ^o 
to  Montreal  for  the  iiat. 

\'ou  see,  when  one  had  red  hair,  it  was 
not  always  an  easy  matter  to  pick  out  a 
hat — if  one  had  taste. 

Then,  there  was  lingerie;  shoes;  gloves. 
Oh,  so  many,  many  things! 
.\nd  the  house. 

Really,  the  right  thing  to  do,  would  be 
to  sell  off  what  they  had  and  refurnish  the 
place  throughout. 

They  could  get  the  furniture  at  Juval's 


130 


The  Golden  Poppy 


for  a  small  cash  payment  and  so  much 
each  month. 

If  anything  happened,  or  there  was 
sickness  in  the  family,  they  never 
troubled  one  for  the  payments. 

It  wa.s  about  time  they  were  hearing 
from  Philippe. 

The  Cure  must  have  seen  him  long 
since.  He  was  a  man  of  action.  He 
would  not  put  it  off. 

Perhaps  Philippe  was  studying  the 
niattcr — getting  ready  to  make  his  prop- 
osition. 

You  see,  it  was  not  a  question  of  a 
slight  raise;  but  an  entirely  different 
arrangement. 

That  was  it;  a  different  arrangement. 

The  Cure  would  see  to  that. 

He  was  not  one  to  do  things  by  halves. 


Then,  came  the  long  looked  for  day, 
when  Philippe  spoke. 

Ernestine  ran  over  to  thf   barns,  one 


The  Golden  Poppy 


131 


morning,  and  told  Nazaire  that  Philippe 
wished  to  see  him  in  the  house. 

Nazaire  brushed  his  clothes  with  his 
hands,  cleared  his  voice  and  followed  the 

girl- 
Philippe  had  risen  from  breakfast  and 

was  smoking  his  pipe  in  an  arm-chair  by 

the  window. 

A  newspaper  lay  carelessly  across  his 
knee. 

"Sit  down,  Nazaire,"  said  Philippe. 

And  then,  without  preamble: 

"How  much  am  I  paying  you  now?" 

"Parbleu!"  growled  Nazaire,  "don't 
you  know?" 

"How  much  do  you  want?" 

"Enough  to  live  on ;  to  keep  a  horse  and 
rig;  to  dress  my  wife  like  other  women; 
to  have  something  else  on  our  table  be- 
sides potat'"-  and  salt  pork  and  pea 
soup." 

As  he  spoke,  his  eyes  swept  over  the 
breakfast  table,  where  lay  the  remains  of 
the  morning  meal. 

"You  are  making  a  speech,"  retorted 


13^ 


The  Golden  Poppy 


Philippe.     "I  asked  you  a  question — how 

much  do  you  want?" 

"Twenty  dollars  more  o.i  the  month." 
"Very  well.     You  shall  have  it.     It  is 

agreed." 

Already  Nazaire  regretted  not  having 
demanded  more.  It  was  so  easily  done. 
Such  a  simple  matter. 

There  was  a  moinent's  silence.  Presently 
Philippe  resumed: 

"Now,  I  have  been  thinking  matter^ 
over;  and  I  see  where  I  have  been  run- 
ning things  at  a  loss — too  loosely.  So,  I 
will  have  to  charge  you.  hereafter,  for 
whatever  you  take  off  the  farm — milk, 
eggs,  salt  pork  and  the  rest.  Then,  there 
is  the  cottage  you  are  living  in.  I  can 
get  ten  dollar'-^  a  month  rent  for  it.  Bis- 
sonnette.  the  man  who  is  coming  to  take 
Pierre's  place,  would  like  to  have  it.  But, 
as  you  are  now  occupying  the  house,  you 
may  have  it  at  that  price.  On  the  first 
day  of  each  month,  hereafter,  we  will 
settle    our    account.      You    will    receive 


The  Golden  Poppy 


^33 


whatever  is  due  you,  after  I  have  deducted 
what  is  coming  to  me." 

Nazaire  went  while  as  he  caught  the 
words  rolling  easily  from  the  lips  of  his 
brother.  For  it  was  quite  apparent  to 
him  that  he  had  been  tricked;  that  hence- 
forth he  would  be  worse  off  than  before. 

When  Philippe  rose  abruptly  and  left 
the  room,  he  remained  in  his  seat,  his 
mouth  agape,  his  bulging  eyes  staring 
stupidly,  unbelieving,  at  the  vacant  arm- 
chair by  the  window. 

After  a  while,  he  rose  up  and  lumbered 
heavilv  out  of  the  house. 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN. 


Randon  took  his  bride  to  an  apartment 
on  Sherbrook  Street  at  the  end  of  a  short 
wedding  tour  through  New  England. 

The  place  was  furnished  in  good  taste 
and  met  v.-ith  the  instant  approval  of 
Isabelle,  who  smilingly  likened  it  to  a 
robin's  nest. 

Soon  her  dainty  hands  were  at  work, 
putting  deft  feminine  touches  here  and 
there,  adding  or  toning  down  a  color, 
changing  the  position  of  a  bisque,  or  re- 
hanging  a  picture  to  suit  the  play  of  the 
light. 

She  promised  herself  golden  hours — 
long  chaplets  of  golden  hours,  within 
these  precincts  of  her  young  wedded  life. 

She  was  supremely  happy. 

David  had  served  his  term  on  the  am- 
bulance. 

[134] 


The  Golden  Poppy 


135 


He  was  now  an  interne  at  St.  Malachi's, 
where  his  duties  required  that  he  spend 
the  greater  part  of  the  time. 

What  leisure  hours  were  his  he  whiled 
away  in  the  company  of  Isabelle. 

Sometimes  they  would  spend  an  evening 
at  the  theatre,  or  at  the  home  of  friends. 
For  the  voung  physician  had  not  been 
slow  to  cultivate  friendships  in  the  city. 

He  looked  upon  advantageous  acquaint- 
ances as  essential  investments,  connections 
that  would  accrue  in  value  and,  in  time, 
reflect  a  prestige  much  to  be  desired  in 
hi.?  practice. 

He  spoke  of  this  repeatedly  to  Isabelle, 
who,  in  turn,  lost  no  opportunity  to  foster 
and  cement  those  alliances  which  might 
lead  to  "n  enviable  foothold  in  her  hus- 
band's profession. 

On  fine  days  they  would  scroll  through 
the  parks  and  watch  the  children  at  play, 
or  the  old  people  basking  in  the  sun. 
Once  he  took  her  to  the  mountain. 
From  its  gr'uzled  peak  they  scanned 
the  broad  expanse. 


136 


The  iioldcH  Poppy 


The  sky  hung  like  a  canopy  of  crystal. 

'i'hey  could  see  far  away,  where  the 
blue  hills  rose  and  kissed  the  bendinfj 
iieavens. 

"Over  there."  said  David,  "is  Longueil. 
And  yonder,  St.  Lambert ;  and  Cockna- 
wagga,  the  Indian  xillage.  And  that." 
pointing  farther  out.  "i.^  Lachine;  and 
the  Rapids.  And  here  is  Xun's  Island, 
nearer  in." 

They  gazed  at  the  .St.  Lawrence, 
sweeping  by  at  their  feet,  as  it  seemed, 
and  were  awed  by  tiie  grandeur  of  its 
majesty. 

The  city  sprawled  in  the  lap  of  the 
mountain. 

They  had  coffee  and  sandwiches  at  a 
little  rest-house;  and  went  home. 

Lsabellc  was  fatigued  from  the  arduous 
journey  and  annour,..ed,  with  a  weary 
smile,  that  she  was  glad  to  be  back  in  her 
robin's  nest. 

She  changed  her  street  dress  for  a 
loose-fitting  gown  of  soft  texture  and 
slipped  her  feet  into  a  pair  of  bronze  slip- 


The  Golden  Poppy 


137 


pers,  which  had  causiit  her  eye  in  a  shop 
window  on  Xotre  Dame  Street. 

Antoinette,  the  httle  house-maid,  re- 
cently en^ag^ed  by  Randon,  served  a  hp^ht 
collation;  for  they  were  too  tired  to  do 
justice  to  a  meal. 

They  were  still  at  the  table,  discussing 
their  afternoon  on  the  mountain,  when  the 
door-bell  rang. 

A  moment  later,  Antoinette  came  in  to 
say  that  a  Monsieur  Demers  was  in  the 
reception  room. 

"Who  is  he?"  enquired  Isabelle.  when 
the  maid  had  withdrawn. 

"A  friend.    From  Longueil." 

"I  can't  meet  him."  she  hastened  to  say. 

"Why  not?" 

"This  way — in  neglige'" 

"I  don't  see  what  difference  that  makes. 
People  in  the  city  understand  one  doesn't 
go  tight-laced  in  one's  own  home." 

"But,  David.  I'd  rather  not.  Ti  will 
take  but  a  few  minutes  to  dress — " 

"That's  the  trouble,"  Randon  rejoined 


138 


The  Golden  Poppy 


irritably.      "You  never   will  become  ac- 
climated, I'm  thinking." 

"Just  the  same,"  flared  Isabelle,  flushing 
deeply,  "I  have  my  own  ideas  of  propriety, 
and,  what  is  more,  they  are  not  neces- 
sarily of  the  country.  They  are  the  ideas 
of  any  well  bred  woman,  anywhere." 

She  made  to  rise  from  the  table  but 
relaxed  again  in  her  se;  t,  as  the  footsteps 
of  the  guest  sounded  in  the  library. 

A  moment  later  Rene  Demers  stood 
balancing  himself  uncertainly  in  the  door- 
way of  thv^  dining-room. 

He  was  drunk.  He  grinned  down  at 
the  astonished  pair. 

"Ah,  les  nouveaux  maries — the  honey- 
mooners!"  he  exclaimed.  "It  is  with 
grand  delight  that  I  salute  you!" 

e  bowed  obsequiously  to  Isabelle  and 
fixed  upon  her  a  dazed,  glassy  grin. 

Randon,  perplexed,  introduced  the 
visitor  to  his  wife.  Isabelle  acknowledged 
the  formality  coldly.  Demers  doubled 
into  a  convenient  chair.  He  was  dressed 
in    evening   clothes.      Turning   his    face 


The  Golden  Poppy 


139 


slowly  to  Randon,  he  said,  becoming  of  a 
sudden,  quite  serious: 

"David,  old  hoy,  I  was  f^oing  to  dinner 
at  my  little  Fantine's.  1  receive  special 
invitation  from  her  papa.  I  guess  now 
I  don't  go.  Her  papa  might  give  me  still 
more  pressing  invitation  to  stay  away.  I 
think  I  go  for  ride  instead.  Like  to  go 
for  ride?    My  car  is  outside." 

Isabelle  made  an  excuse  and  left  the 
room,  to  the  evident  annoyance  of  Randon, 
who  followed  her  with  his  eye  until  the 
door  swung  behind  her.  When  she  re- 
turned, a  few  moments  later.  Demers  had 
gone. 

Randon  was  in  the  front  room,  gazing 
out  into  the  lamp-lighted  street,  where  a 
drizzle  of  rain  was  now  falling. 

Isabelle  stood,  for  a  moment,  by  the 
table,  waiting  for  him  to  speak.  She 
cleared  her  voice  to  make  sure  that  he 
was  aware  of  her  presence.  But  he  said 
no  word;  nor  moved  an  inch  from  his 
position. 


I40 


Thr  Cnldr,,   Poppy 


She  went  up  tu  him  atul  put  her  arm 
about  his  waist. 

lie  turned  ([uickly.  the  pale  >hc'cn  from 
the  arc-hf^ht  on  his  fa'x-.  now  (hstorted  in 
anger.  Ik-  opened  his  mouth  to  speak. 
But  closed  his  hps  again  in  silence.  Then 
he  broke  away  from  the  arm  that  held 
him,  and,  crossing  over  to  the  guests' 
bedroom,  closed  the  door. 

Isabelle  went  to  bed. 

Several  times  she  was  on  the  verge  of 
rising  and  going  in  to  him. 

But  her  pride  welled  up,  forbidding  her 
the  cheapening  of  herself.  Far  into  the 
night  she  waked,  tossing  on  the  bed,  now 
hoping  he  would  relent  and  come  to  her, 
now  feverishly  rcasotnng  the  injustice  of 
his  treatment. 

Cocks  crowed  from  afar.  A  gray  gleam 
steeled  the  eastern  sky.  Milk-carts  rat- 
tled noisily  over  the  street.  It  would  soon 
be  time  to  rise. 

Had  Antoinette  mailed  the  letter  to 
Pierre? 

There  were  berries  for  breakfast — 


The  Uoldeu  Poppy 


141 


It  \va>  noon  and  a  bright  >un  was 
playinp  its  rays  on  the  tumbling  gold  of 
her  hair,  when  she  awoke. 

There  were  some  letters  from   I.amar 
tinette    on    her    dresser,    put     there    by 
Antoinette. 

Doctor  Randoii  had  left  early  for  St. 
.Vfalachi's. 

It  wa^  his  custom  to  pay  her  a  hurried 
\'isit  each  dav  while  the  staff  was  at 
dinner  in  the  hospital. 

She  knew  the  hour  of  his  coming  and 
^aw  to  it  that  a  tempting  "diner  a  deux" 
was  waiting  upon  his  arrival. 

Today  the  hours  dragged  by  with 
crushing  monotony. 

The  hands  of  the  little  brass  clock  in 
the  library  seemed  glued  to  the  dial. 

She  tried  to  read.  But  found  no  interest 
in  the  story.  The  author  must  have  been 
a  dull,  conceited  sort.  She  cast  the  hoc': 
aside. 

Six  o'clock,  she  told  herself:  he  would 
come  at  six. 

She  would  greet  him.  in  the  doorway,  as 


14-i 


I  hr  Cold  en    I'npf^y 


ho  canif  in.  putting  her  .irin^  ahoui  hi> 
neck  AikI  Uv  would  take  her  face  in  both 
his  hands  and  kiss  hi-r  riu-n  the\  uould 
-it  down  I"  dinner  together  tor  a  happy 
hour.     And  all   would  he  torj^joUen. 

At    tot  r   o'clock    she   dismissed    Antoi 
nette   for   the   remainder   of   the  day   and 
t'inished.     herself,     tin-     preparation.s     for 
dinner. 

She  baked  a  '  |)ain  de  Savoie"  and  made 
the  frosting.  There  was  a  chicken  en 
casserole.  nesthiiiL;  in  green  peas  .md 
savor\  sauce.  .\nd  a  wrmderful  salad  of 
crisp,  vellou  lettuce  and  manzanillos  and 
slices  of  red.  ripe  tomatoes  that  looked 
like  little  cart  wheels.  She  laid  a  snow- 
white  cloth  and  set  the  dishes. 

When  all  was  in  readiness,  she  went 
out  onto  the  i>orch  to  ^ee  if  he  was  coming. 

.\s  she  ])asved  throuj^h  the  hbrarx  she 
glanced  eagerly  at  the  clock.  W  ho  would 
have  thought  it  was  so  late — twenty 
tninutes  after  six!  He  was  always  here 
before  this.  A  chilling  fear  leaped  in  her 
heart.    What  if  he  should  not  come — 


ihr  (, olden   I'oppy 


"4.^ 


Seipneiit  '  \\u-  >u->|nii-c  <••'  the  night 
woulil  ')«•  intolerabk'. 

She  g^azed  down  the  •stately  street,  now 
a(|uiver  with  the  animation  of  lioniintj 
ihron^'^  aJid  vfluclev 

Men  an<l  woim'ii  hnrru-d  In  .  tht-n"  taces 
alijj^hl  with  the  joy  ot  boiiieconiinj(. 

I'.af^erlv  she  scanned  iheni  as  they  came 
into  view,  aj)proached.  and  pa^^^ed  beyond 
attain. 

Somewhere  m  the  distance  a  chime 
lold  seven  1  )usk  w as  scttbnj^.  now.  over 
the  citv.  A  (bdl  copper  lla/e  Hnii:ered 
where  the  •^un  had  been. 

With  troubled  heart  she  went  m  and 
closed  the  door. 

A   thought  came  \n  her;   maybe  sonie- 
ibing  had  happened  i«^  him.     There  was 
'hr  tele|)hone      She  w-nild  call  him  at   the 
lospilal. 

She  was  informed  by  a  grutil'  voice  in 
I  he  office  that  Doctor  Randon  could  not 
'  ome  to  the  telephone,  lie  had  been  very 
l)us\  <5ince  earlv  morninti  in  the  operating 
r(X)m.     >'es.  he  would  give  him  the  mes- 


144 


The  (roldeti   Poppy 


sage,  but  could  not  say  how  soon  There 
had  been  a  disastrous  fire  in  the  factory 
<listrict.  A  larfje  number  of  workers  had 
lieen  injured. 

Isabelle  jjlaoed  the  receiver  on  the  hook. 

"Then,  it  is  not  what  I  feared."  slie 
said  aloud,  her  face  ahfi^lu  with  jjiadnes  ■. 
".Mon  Dieu.  I  am  so  liai)i)y''" 

She  cleared  the  table;  and  put  away  the 
•  iinnt-r.  untouched.     She  was  not  hun.i:fr\'. 

iU>W. 

Would  the  gruff  voice  in  liu-  ottice 
deliver  the  message:  Would  it  be  late? 
Surely  they  would  not  keep  him  in  the 
iiperating  room  much  longer. 

She  turned  on  the  reading  lamp  in  the 
library  and  picked  up  the  discarded  book 
of  the  afternoon.  She  would  read  a  while. 
Ke  would  call  her  up.  of  course. 

An  hour  passed.  The  novel  was  not  so 
bad  after  all.  Indeed,  it  was  interesting. 
The  hero  was  an  audacious,  dare-devil 
."•ort ;  while  the  heruine — 

I  here  was  a  faint  flutter  of  the  tele- 


The  (iolticH   floppy 


145 


phone  hell,  followed  h\'  a  bold.  *;tartliny 
ring. 

It  was  Randon. 

He  was  in  his  best  mood.  He  had  been 
kepi  busy  since  early  niorningf.  He  was 
very  tired.  He  would  now  try  to  get  a 
little  sleep.  \  es,  surely,  he  would  be  home 
tomorrow  for  dinner.  .She  must  go  to  bed 
and  get  a  good  rest.  The  mountain  trip 
liad  been  too  much  for  both  of  them,  he 
feared — for  their  nerves,  at  least. 

He  laughed  and  she  understood. 

She  turned  again  to  her  novel  and  stole 
.T  glimpse  at  the  closing  chapter.  It 
f)leased  her,  for  she  smiled  approvingly. 

She  closed  the  l)ook  and  went  off  hap- 
pily to  bed. 


CHAPTER  SIXTF.EN. 


( )n  :i  number  of  occasions  Isabelle  had 
L^ently  counseled  what  she  termed  a  les> 
extravagant  hving  programme. 

She  had  poir'.ed  out  to  Randon  that  it 
their  present  expenditures  were  not 
sharply  retrenched  their  resources  would 
have  dwindled  out  long  before  he  could 
hope  to  gain  sustenance  from  his  pro 
fession. 

He  hearc'   her  out  each   time   without 
comment :  but  made  no  effort  in  the  direc 
tion  suggested  by  his  wife. 

Tomorrow  was  another  day :  and  would 
bring  its  own  problems.  Besides,  this  was 
the  method  of  life  he  had  planned 

It  would  prove  an  avenue  to  early 
recognition  bv  a  desirable  clientele,  lu 
rapid  advancement  in  his  chosen  work. 

(1461 


The  (t olden  Poppy 


147 


The  first  indispensable  requisite  was  to 
make  an  impression. 

The  citv  was  overrun  by  men  of  his 
profession  who  would  never  be  heard 
from,  because  they  had  elected  to  sit  and 
wait  for  a  practice. 

The  mouse  must  go  to  the  mountain. 

Furthermore,  there  was  the  matter  of 
his  wife's  dowery.  The  subject  had  never 
been  mentioned  by  him  to  Philippe  La- 
belle. 

It  was  for  the  father  '<i  the  l)ridc  to 
--peak  first  in  such  cases. 

Randon  was  giving  up  al!  he  possessed 
for  the  home.  Surely  his  father-in-law 
should  be  willing  to  do  an  equal  share. 

When  the  time  came,  he  would  make- 
it  plain  to  Labelle  that  he  was  nobody's 
fool.  But.  there  was  no  need  for  haste. 
Mis  own  fairness  would  be  all  the  more 
evident  and  efTective  after  a  reasonable 
lapse  of  time.  And  then,  there  was 
always  a  possibility  that  the  old  fellow 
might    take    the    initiative    and    accede, 


!:H 


14^ 


The  Golden   Poppy 


without    proddinti,    to    rhc    propriety    of 
things. 

Too.  there  was  his  wife  to  consider.  Not 
for  worlds  would  he  ha\e  her  think  that 
he  had  married  for  monev. 

-As  matters  stood,  he  was  by  no  means 
penniless.  But.  money  went  fast.  It 
seemed  that  every  time  he  mo\ed  •^otne 
hill  was  due. 

But.  that  wa^  it :  lie  was  paving:  thr 
j>rice.  He  had  entered  into  the  bargain: 
and  understood  the  terms.  Fie  w  a^;  aiming 
high.     It  was  fair  enough. 

Now,  if  he  had  rented  a  plain  little 
house  at  Point  St.  Charles  and  buried 
himself  among  the  mass — what  then? 

.A  long,  silent  struggle,  meagre  in 
reward,  tardy  in  doubtful  recognition. 

No.  Better  by  far  the  lot  of  the  hab- 
itant whistling  behind  his  plough. 

For.   he,   at    least,    was   happy   in    his 
limitations,  having  no  higher  aim,  know 
ing  no  wider  bourne. 


The  Golden  Poppy 


149 


Summer  fled  like  a  dream. 

And  all  too  soon  the  frowning  skies  of 
Autunm  lowered,  cold  and  bleak,  over  the 
city.  There  was  a  long,  gray  interlude  of 
soughing  winds  and  falling  leaves,  rattling 
into  drifts  in  the  gutters  along  the  streets. 

Then,  suift  and  ruthless,  Winter  came. 

One  day,  when  Isabelle  awoke,  a  heavy 
snow  was  falling.  She  stepped  to  the 
window.  A  thick  pall  o  white  lay  over 
the  street.  The  trees  were  like  carvings 
of  crystal. 

A  w^onderful  stillness  lulled  the  air.  A 
feeling  of  loneliness  stole  over  her.  She 
felt  alone  and  unfriended.  It  was  four 
days  since  David  had  come.  This  would 
make  the  fifth.  His  duties  were  demand- 
ing more  and  more  of  his  time  as  the 
months  went  b}-.  She  was  nigh  to  tears. 
But,  she  must  be  brave. 

A  bewildered  sparrow,  seeking  food, 
fluttered  a  moment  before  her  at  the 
window ;  and  was  gone. 

She  dressed  and  called  Antoinette.  No, 
there  was  no  mail.    It  was  probably  late 


ISO 


The  Golden  Poppy 


because  of  the  storm.  Breakfast  would 
be  ready  shortly.  The  grocer  had  sent  his 
monthly  bill  with  the  day's  order.  It 
seemed  very  high.  She  had  told  him  as 
much.  But,  he  only  laughed  and  said  it 
was  quite  correct. 

It  was  close  onto  noon  before  the 
carrier  finally  brought  the  mail.  There 
were  some  newspapers  and  periodicals; 
and  a  letter  from  Pierre,  the  second  she 
had  received  from  him  since  her  marriage. 

The  missive  came  as  a  sunbeam  slanting 
in  upon  her  through  the  storm.  She 
opened  the  envelope  and,  seating  herself 
by  the  window,  began  to  read. 

There  were  eight  closely  written  sheets. 

He  had  taken  the  habit  of  the  Little 
Brothers  on  the  feast  of  the  Assumption 
and,  though  still  a  novice,  had  been  given 
a  class  of  little  fellows  to  teach. 

He  was  very  much  taken  up  with  the 
work  and  felt  quite  at  peace  with  the 
world  and  himself. 

Mamman    Labelle    came    to    see    him 


The  Golden  Poppy 


151 


frequently;  usually  on  Sundays,  on  her 
way  home  from  vespers. 

Philippe  he  had  not  seen.  Nor  the 
others. 

He  had  fallen  heir  to  some  three  hun- 
dred acres  of  farm  land  near  St.  Gregoire, 
through  the  death  of  Louis  Beaudoin,  a 
distant  relative,  who  had  no  other  kin. 

There  was  also  the  sum  of  seven 
thousand  dollars,  belonging  to  the  estate, 
which  was  on  deposit  in  a  bank  at  St 
John's,  awaiting  his  call.  It  would  have 
made  a  very  nice  start,  had  he  remained 
in  the  world. 

But,  it  did  not  tempt  him  now.  Some- 
how, it  came  as  an  unwelcome  burden ;  for 
he  could  make  no  use  of  it;  and  it  would 
be  a  source  of  care  and  annoyance. 

No  doubt  she  was  in  love  with  the 
city ;  and  supremely  happy  in  her  new  sur- 
roundings. 

She  was  not  to  forget  him  when  she 
came  to  Lamartinette.  He  might,  per- 
haps, be  granted  a  conge,  so  that  he  could 
go  home  and  spend  a  few  hours  with  her. 


It 


The  Golden  Poppy 


However,  ihe  rules  of  tlie  brotherhood 
were  strict  and  he  was  not  sure  that  he 
would  he  permitted  to  go.  But,  they 
would  see. 

Mamnian  Lahelle  was  looking  j)oorly,  of 
late ;  and  her  kindly  smile  was  a  hit  tired 
and  wist  fid,  he  thought.  She  had  told 
him,  herself,  that  the  loss  of  Isabelle  had 
left  a  great  void  in  her  life — a  void  that 
could  never  he  filled. 

He  had  endea\ored  to  cheer  her;  and, 
for  a  little  while,  she  had  seemed  her  old 
self  again.  But,  somehow,  after  she  had 
gone,  he  felt  quite  upset.  For,  it  grieved 
him  inexpressibly  to  see  her  distress.  He 
loved  her  so!  She  was  the  only  mother 
he  had  ever  known.  And  her  life  had 
been  such  an  unhajipy  one — barren  of  love 
and  the  little  kindnesses  that  made  of  the 
home  a  sacred  precinct  for  the  heart. 

He  had  a  little  hunchback  in  his  class — 
un  petit  bossu.  And  a  one-legged  boy 
from  the  States. 

Strange   to  say,    these   two   were   the 


The  Golden  Poppy 


153 


brightest  of  his  class — but,  brimming  over 
with  devilment. 

He  had  thirty-two  pupils :  sixty-four 
bright,  mischievous  eyes  to  watch  and 
guide  and  lead  aright. 

It  was  a  beautiful,  all-absorbing  work, 
this  grafting  of  early  knowledge  onto  the 
ready,  eager  minds  of  the  young. 

It  was  like  planting  a  precious  seed  and 
caring  for  it,  day  by  day,  until  it  sprouted 
and  became  a  sturdy  plant  and,  some  day, 
burst  into  bloom  before  the  wondering 
eyes  of  the  gardener. 

This  was  Thursday,  the  weekly  holiday. 
He  had  corrected  the  exercises  for  the 
morrow  and,  being  quite  alone  in  the 
study,  had  stolen  an  hour's  communion 
with  his  little  playmate  of  the  long  ago — 
his  golden  poppy  of  the  fields. 

The  letter  concluded  with  wishes  for 
her  happiness  and  a  request  to  be  remem- 
bered in  her  prayers. 

Isabelle  dropped  the  fluttering  sheets  in 
her  lap  and  gazed  out  the  window  at  the 
falling  snow. 


154 


The  Golden  Poppy 


She  sat  there  a  long  while,  weaving  day 
dreams,  that  carried  her  back,  ever  so  far, 
it  seemed,  to  days  and  to  scenes  now 
clothed  with  a  certain  charm. 

She  was  startled  from  her  reverie  by 
the  telephone  bell. 

Randon  was  speaking.  He  would  be 
home  at  six. 

She  glanced  at  the  clock. 

"Antoinette,"  she  beamed,  in  the  door- 
way of  the  kitchen,  "dinner  for  two: 
Milord  is  coming!" 

Then,  she  went  to  the  wardrobe  and 
chose  his  favorite  dress. 

Antoinette,  at  her  work,  caught  the 
refrain  of  an  old  French  song.  She  stood 
and  listened  for  a  moment,  a  smile  flitting 
over  her  pretty  face. 

"Ah,"  she  mused  aloud,  "Madame  is  so 
happy !" 


CHAPTER  SEVENTERX. 


After  dinner  Isabelle  handed  Pierre's 
letter  to  David.  He  read  it  carefully  and 
laid  it  down  without  comment.  He  seemed 
thoughtful  throughout  the  evening;  and 
spoke  but  little.  Isabelle  laid  his  silence  to 
the  reaction  of  overwork  and  left  him 
tactfully  to  his  mood.  They  were  about 
to  retire  when  he  turned  to  her,  suddenly, 
and  said: 

"Pierre  >ays  your  mother  is  poorly.  It 
may  be  he  is  not  telling  you  all  he  knows. 
Why  not  go  home  for  a  visit?  It  would 
cheer  her  up  and  might  lead  to  an  im- 
provement in  her  condition." 

Isabelle  laid  aside  the  book  she  was 
reading. 

"I  had  thought  of  doing  so,"  she  said. 
"It  is  very  good  of  you  to  suggest  it." 

So,  it  was  agreed  that  she  would  spend 

[155] 


•56 


The  Gold  en  Poppy 


a  few  weeks  in  L.unartinctte.  She  would 
leave  the  following  Monday.  Antoinette 
would  l)e  kti  in  char,u:e  of  the  menage 
durint;  her  absence. 

She  would  he  very  lonesome  for  him. 
And  so  woidd  he  ff)r  her.  Ikit,  it  was 
the  prijKT  thinj^  to  do  under  the  circum- 
stances, he  believed. 

On  Sunday.  David  was  home  the 
g^reater  part  of  the  day.  Isabelle  went 
about  the  preparations  for  her  departure 
with  a  noticeable  lack  of  spirit.  More 
than  once  she  expressed  a  wish  that  he 
were  ^oxnix  with  her.  He  readily  agreed 
that  if  such  an  arrangement  were  possible 
it  would,  indeed,  be  very  pleasant.  But, 
of  course,  it  was  out  of  the  question. 
However,  he  might  get  away  for  a  day.  In 
that  event,  he  would  surprise  her. 

The  Trd)ors  called  in  the  evening. 

W'aldon  Tabor  was  a  tall,  cadaverous 
man  of  fifty  yea^s  or  thereabouts. 

His  wife  was  a  plump  little  bit  of 
smiling  affectation,  some  twenty  years 
younger  than  her  husband. 


The  Golden  Poppy 


157 


They  were  an  oddly  mated  pair. 

Tabor  was  reputed  to  l)e  wealthy.  He 
rarclv  discii  cd  his  affairs  with  friends  or 
acquaintances,  anionj.:;  whom  there  pre- 
vailed a  \a^ue  inijjression  tnat  he  was  in 
some  manner  enp^aj^^ed  in  the  business  of 
stocks. 

Thev  lived  in  an  exclusi\c  section  of 
the  city  and  .^ave  er-ery  evidence  of 
affluence. 

The  pair  remained  but  a  short  Vvhile. 
They  were  takinjj^  their  first  slei.c^h-ride  of 
the  season  and  called  en  passant.  Isabelle 
must  come  out  and  spend  the  day  upon 
licr  return  to  the  city.  The  doctor  could 
join  them  for  dinner  and  they  would 
arranp-e  a  theatre  party  for  the  evening. 

Mrs.  Tabor  smiled  sweetly. 

"Good  bye,  my  dear,"  she  cooed,  "and 
don't  stay  away  too  long!" 

She  kissed  Isabelle  and  extended  a  little 
gloved  hand  to  Randon : 

"And  you.  Doctor,  you  must  come  to 
see  us  often  while  Mr.,.  Randon  is  awav. 


158 


The  Golden  Poppy 


Make  yourself  one  of  us.  Sans  ceremonie, 
you  know."  And,  smiling  up  into  her 
husband's  face:  "Waldon  talks  so  much 
about  you  two  young  lovers !" 

Tabor  grinned  without  speaking,  his 
greenish  eyes  fixed  upon  Isabelle.  Wheu 
they  had  gone,  the  Randons  finished 
packing  the  trunks. 

The  following  day  Isabelle  took  an 
ea^^ly  train  for  Lamartinette. 

David  escorted  her  to  the  s^ition.  He 
sent  a  large  basket  of  fruit  to  Mrs.  La- 
belle  an  '  purchased  a  box  of  bonbons  and 
some  magazines  ^or  his  wife.  He  was 
very  pleasant;  and  sought  to  cheer  Isa- 
belle, who  was  averse  to  the  separation. 
The  brakeman  stepped  into  the  coach  and 
called  out  the  various  stops  of  the  train. 
The  bell  rang  on  the  locomotive  and  they 
became  aware  that  they  were  moving. 
David  rose  hastily  and  kissed  his  wife.  He 
felt  her  clinging  to  him  in  the  first  trem- 
bling embrace  of  parting.  T'  ,ii,  he  tore 
himself  aw<>y  and  rushed  dCii  the  aisle 
of  the  coach ;  and  was  gone. 


The  Golden  Poppy 


159 


Philippe  Labelle  met  his  daughter  at 
the  station.  He  came  up  to  her  slowly,  his 
hand  outstretched. 

She  was  shocked  at  the  transformation 
that  had  taken  place  in  him  within  so 
short  a  time. 

His  eyes  were  bloodshot.  His  puffed 
face  a  purplish,  apoplectic  red. 

"Bienvenu,  ma  fille,"  he  said;  "welcome 
home,  my  daughter." 

The  day  was  cold  and  clear  and  there 
were  many  habitants  in  town.  There 
was  an  incessant  silvery  chorus  of  sleigh- 
bells  in  the  crisp  air.  The  Richelieu  was 
now  a  snow-mantled  field  of  ice. 

Labelle  enquired  briefly  about  Randon 
and  volunteered  the  information  that 
things  were  about  the  same  as  when  she 
was  last  in  Lamartinette.  Her  mother? 
Oh,  she  seemed  well  enough.  She  read  a 
good  deal  and  kept  to  herself,  as  had  been 
her  custom  for  years.  He  had  engaged  a 
new  man,  to  take  the  place  of  Pierre.  A 
habitant  from  St.  Gregoire.  Nazaire  was 
growing  slow  and  sluggish  at  his  work. 


i6o 


The  Cohicu  I'oppy 


Strangely  enough,  the  foohsh  fellow  felt 
quite  iin])()rtant  oi  late.  He  had  insisted 
on  a  readjustnient  of  their  financial 
understantling.  Philippe  had  generously 
consented  a.nd  formulated  a  new  agree- 
ment. Even  that  did  not  seem  to  sati>i'y 
him.  It  was  distressing,  this  striving, 
without  a\ail.  Id  please  your  help.  Indeed, 
if  it  were  not  for  the  fact  that  Nazaire 
was  his  own  Itrother,  he  would  not  have 
him  ahout  the  i)lace. 

It  was  true  that  he  was  paying  higher 
wages  to  Ijissonette.  the  new  man,  than 
to  Xazaire.  But.  he  did  a  better  day's 
work.  And,  besides,  farm  hands  were 
demanding  more  money.  They  refused  to 
work  at  the  old  wage. 

As  they  came  in  view  of  the  house, 
Isabelle  saw  her  mother  standing  in  the 
window  of  her  room,  waving  a  welcome. 

Her  heart  thrilled  at  the  scenes  of  her 
childhood. 

She  thought  of  Pierre ;  and  a  sense  of 
loneliness  came  over  her. 

She  wished  he  were  there  to  greet  her. 


The  Golden  Poppy 


i6i 


Her  father  pointed  out  a  fine  bay 
fielding,  which  he  had  added  to  ihe  stock 
that  fall.     She  nodded  without  interest. 

A  moment  later,  the  front  door  went 
wide  and  she  was  in  her  mother's  arms. 


CHAPTER  EIGHTEEN. 


It  was  with  effort  that  Isabelle  settled 
down  once  more  into  tbe  life  of  the  home. 

She  strove  hard  to  dispel  the  feeling  of 
loneliness  that  threatened  at  times,  to 
overcome  her. 

Mamman  Lal^elle  was  not  slow  to  note 
her  daughter's  recurring  mood.  But,  with 
laudable  tact,  the  elder  woman  refrained 
from  any  comment  on  the  subject;  and 
sought,  at  every  opportunity,  to  make  her 
stay  in  Lamartinette  a  pleasant  one. 

Mamman  had  been  feeling  poorly,  of 
late,  but  was  mending. 

Isabelle  had  been  home  a  fortnight 
when  she  received  a  letter  from  Randon, 
which  revealed  the  true  state  of  his 
finances  and  suggested  in  plain  words, 
that  she  take  steps  to  efifeci  an  advance  on 
her  share  of  the  estate.    It  would  require 

[162] 


The  Golden  Poppy 


163 


is 


S 


i 


I 


at  least  five  thousand  dollars  to  carry 
them  over  the  remaininir  period  of  his 
inactivity  in  practice.  He  was  writing  to 
her  as  a  last  resort.  As  a  matter  of  fact, 
her  father  had  been  remiss  in  his  duty  to 
her  in  failing  even  to  mention  the  subject 
of  his  daughter's  dowery  at  the  time  of 
her  marriage.  He  had  realized  for  some 
time  that  his  funds  were  dwindling;  and, 
in  an  effort  to  stave  off  disaster,  had  but 
hastened  its  accomplishment  by  following 
Tabor's  advice  in  buying  wheat  on  a 
rising  market.  An  hour  after  he  had 
handed  his  last  thousand  to  Tabor,  who 
had  acted  for  him  in  the  transaction,  he 
was  penniless.  Tabor  lost  fifty  thousand 
on  the  same  day.  He  had  admitted  it 
himself  to  David. 

If  she  failed  to  secure  the  money,  there 
was  but  one  alternative — to  close  the 
home  until  the  end  of  his  term  at  St. 
Malachi's. 

The  letter  concluded  with  assurances  of 
affection  and  a  promise  to  visit  her  at 
Lamartinette — if  possible. 


164 


The  Golden  Poppy 


Isabelle  turned  pale  as  she  struggled 
through  the  chilling  revelation. 

Mrs.  Labelle  entered  the  room  as  her 
daughter  was  folding  the  little  paper 
sheets. 

"How  is  he,  my  dear?"  she  asked. 

Isabelle  glanced  up  at  her  mother  and 
back  again  at  the  letter  in  her  hand.  Her 
pride  suffered  deeply  in  this  moment. 
There  was  an  interval  of  silence,  of 
painful  hesitation.  Then,  she  held  out  the 
letter  and  replied : 

"Here  it  is.  Munizie:  read  it  for 
yourself." 

When  she  had  finished  reading,  the 
mother  said : 

"He  is  quite  right,  my  dear.  A  settle- 
ment should  have  been  made  at  the  time 
of  your  marriage.  It  may  be  that  the 
speculation  was  ill  advised.  No  doubt  it 
was.  But,  as  he  says,  plainly  enough,  it 
was  a  question  of  sink  or  swim  and  he 
chose  to  take  a  chance.  Life  is  full  of 
just  such  problems,  cherie.  Say  nothing 
to  your  father.     It  might  prove  embar- 


I 


The  Golden  Poppy 


165 


rassing.     I  shall  have  a  talk  with  him 
myself." 

"Oh,  if  only  it  can  be  arranged!"  spoke 
Isabelle.  I  would  never  have  asked  it  for 
myself,  but — " 

"I  understand,  my  child,"  smiled  the 
mother.  "Your  husband  is  right.  I  shall 
see  what  can  be  done." 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  a  student,  re- 
turning home  from  college,  brought  a 
note  from  Pierre.  He  had  obtained  per- 
mission to  spend  the  following  day, 
Thursday,  at  home. 

^sabelle  was  delighted. 

Of  a  sudden,  and  as  if  by  magic,  the 
clouds  had  been  dispelled  and  there  was 
sunshine. 

That  night,  in  her  room,  she  penned  a 
long  letter  to  David,  in  which  she  told  of 
her  mother's  promised  assistance. 

Pierre  came  on  the  morrow. 

He  was  clothed  in  the  black  habit  of 
the  Little  Brothers. 

Over  his  shoulders  hung  a  long,  heavy 
cape.     He  carried  a  brass  crucifix  on  his 


1 66 


The  Golden  Poppy 


breast.  His  shoes  were  of  course  leather 
and  thick-soled.  He  wore  a  large,  flat- 
topi)cd  cap  of  imitation  Persian  lamb  and 
thick  leather  mittens  lined  with  wool.  A 
'^lack,  ro])e-like  cord,  with  tasseled  ends, 
was  tied  al»out  his  waist.  A  little  two- 
piece  hih  of  white  fabric  i^ave  contrast  to 
the  black  of  the  ijarl)  when  he  removed 
his  cape. 

He  had  straij^htened  perceptibly  and 
had  thrown  off  much  of  his  shyness.  He 
beamed  upon  Isabelle  and  Mamman  and 
was  at  once  \'ery  much  at  home. 

Philip])e  Labell?  cauie  in  for  dinner. 

The  farmer  was  in  his  best  mood;  and 
asked  many  (juestions  about  the  brothers 
and  the  life  they  led. 

In  the  course  of  the  afternoon,  Nazaire 
came  into  the  kitchen  for  hot  water.  A 
sick  horse,  he  explained,  needed  a  bran 
mash. 

"Pierre  is  home?"  he  asked  of  Er- 
nestine. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  girl.  "They're  in  the 
parlor.    Go  right  in." 


The  Golden  Poppy 


167 


< 


He  gazed  down  dubiously  at  his  boots 
and  up  again  at  Rrnestine.  Put,  she  had 
turned  to  her  work  and  was  humming  an 
air,  obhvious  of  his  presence.  He  removed 
his  cap  and,  holding  it  in  both  hands, 
stalked  he;  vily  through  the  passage  to  the 
oi)en  doorway  of  the  room.  Pierre  rose 
to  greet  him.  Nazaire  was  visibly  embar- 
rassed. He  was  very  well — oui.  And 
Pbilomene  was  very  well — oui.  And 
Pierre — he  was  well?  He  would  have 
called  at  the  college  to  see  him,  but  didn't 
know  what  the  rules  were  in  such  things. 
Well,  he  would  be  going.  There  was  a 
sick  horse.  Eh,  bien,  he  would  say  good 
day.  He  must  be  going.  There  was  much 
work  to  do.    Au  revoir. 

He  was  greatly  r<.dieved  to  find  himself 
alone  again  in  the  barns. 

It  was  late  when  Pierre  took  his  leave. 
Philippe  drove  Charlemagne  to  the  college 
gate,  where  the  young  man  alighted. 
Then  he  turned  into  the  street  that  led 
to  the  widow  Duclos'. 


CHAITFR  XIXETEEN. 


The  following  day.  Philippe  had  eaten 
breakfast  and  was  about  to  rise  from  the 
table,  when  his  wife  entered  the  room  and 
closed  the  door.  It  was  an  unusual  thing 
for  her  to  do  and  it  did  not  escape  the 
man's  notice  He  1  )oked  up  at  his  wife 
with  a  puzzled  frown.  She  drew  a  t  lair 
opposite  him  at  the  table  and  sat  down. 

"I  want  to  speak  to  you,'  si  -  said, 
"about  money;  about  sonie  sort  ot  fii  m- 
cial  arrangement  with  Isabelle.  Her 
husband  is  at  the  end  of  his  resources  and 
has  another  year  to  go  before  engaging 
in  practice.  Unless  we  do  our  part,  the 
young  people  will  be  obliged  to  close  their 
home  for  the  present." 

"Well!"  g  isped  Philippe.  "This  is  news 
to  me.     I  was  led  to  think,  all  a'  mg,  the 

[168] 


The  (loldcn  Poppy 


169 


fello\N  fiad  means  of  his  own.  You  made 
no  mention  to  me  of  his  being  a  pauper." 

"\'ou  knew  as  much  as  I  did  about  the 
young  man's  fmancial  condition,"  rejoined 
Mrs.  L.ibelle.  "Furthermore,  he  went  to 
you  and  asked  for  our  daughter.  That 
was  the  time  to  inform  yourself  on  any 
matter  that  was  not  clear  to  you.  As  it 
is.  he  has  furnished  a  home  at  his  own 
expense  and  used  the  remainder  of  his 
funds  in  an  effort  to  prepare  the  way  for 
a  successful  career.  He  has  run  short. 
And  as  nothing  in  the  way  of  a  settlement 
was  suggested  !  you  at  the  time  of  Isa- 
belle's  marriage,  i  am  afraid  it  was  she. 
and  not  the  young  Randon,  who  appeared 
the  pauper." 

"And  what  does  he  expect  me  to  do?" 

"It  will  take  five  thousand  dollars  to 
see  him  established  in  practice.  That  is 
no  more  th  m  Isabelle  should  have  received 
on  her  wedding  day." 

"Fool!"  roared  Labelle,  rising  up  from 
his  seat,  his  face  ablaze  with  fury.  "You 
would  conspire  with  that  damned  parvenu 


.111 


I70 


The  Colli  en   Poppy 


to  rob  luc?  Am  I  a  dotard,  that  you  dare 
to  talk  like  this  to  nier'  He  wants  five 
thousand  dollars,  docs  he?  Then,  let  him 
earn  it,  as  I  do.  lie  would  wear  a  silk 
hat  in  the  city,  while  I  should  be  content 
to  scrape  manure  off  my  boots.  A  con- 
venient arranj::emcnt — for  him.  Tell  Isa- 
belle  for  me  that  if  he  cannot  supi)ort  her 
she  may  come  home  to  live.  That  is  my 
answer  to  him — and  to  you." 

He  said  no  UKne;  but  picked  up  his 
cap  and  slammed  the  door  behind  him. 

Throuj^h  the  window  she  watched  him 
from  her  seat  by  the  table,  strutting  across 
the  space  between  the  house  and  the  barns. 

When  he  had  disappeared  behind  the 
straw-stack  in  the  barn-yard,  she  rose 
with  decision. 

Isabelle  had  not  yet  come  down.  No 
doubt  she  was  still  asleep.  She  would  not 
call  her.  There  was  work  ahead.  She 
wished  to  go  about  it  alone.  She  could 
take  her  choice  of  two  courses :  convey 
Philippe's  reply  to  her  daughter,  or  go  to 
the   college   and    lay    the   matter   before 


The  Golden  Poppy' 


171 


I 


Pierre,  with  a  view  to  •^ecurin^  the  iiKjney 
from  him. 

She  wt)ul<l  see  I'icrre. 

Slic  (hspatched  lutiestine  to  the  stable. 
Bissoneitc  was  to  harness  Charlemagne 
at  on^e. 

Then  she  went  to  her  room.  She  was 
dressed  when  tlie  man  drove  nj)  in  front 
of  the  house. 

"\'ou  understand,  Pierre,"  she  said, 
when  she  had  gone  over  in  detail  the  sub- 
ject of  her  visit,  "I  would  be  personally 
responsible  to  you  for  the  money." 

Pierre  raised  a  deprecating  hand: 

'i  am  indebted  to  you  for  more  than 
that,  Mamman.  \\m  are  welcome  to  it,  I 
assure  you.  Only,  say  not  a  word  about  it 
to  Isabelle.  Let  her  believe  it  came  '"rom 
her  father.  I  shall  go  to  the  bank  during 
the  noon  recess.  You  may  have  the  money 
any  time  this  afternoon.  Or,  better  still, 
can  you  meet  me  at  the  bank  at  twelve?" 
les. 

"Good.       Then    it    i.s    settled — twelve 


m 


172 


The  Golden  Poppy 


o'clock,  at  the  St.  John's  bank.  Until  then, 
Maniman,  au  revoir !" 

She  tried  to  speak;  to  express  her 
gratitude. 

But,  he  would  not  hear  her. 

"My  class,  Mamman,"  he  smiled.  "They 
are  vvaiting  for  me." 

In  a  trice  he  was  gone;  and  she  w  s 
standing  by  the  little  table  in  the  center 
of  the  room,  staring  at  the  open  doorway 
through  which  he  h  .d  passed. 

It  was  two  o'clock  in  the  afternoon 
when  she  reached  home  with  the  money. 

"Then,  he  did  give  it  to  you!"  said 
Isabelle. 

"Yes,  my  dear,"  replied  the  woman, 
guiltily  repressive  of  the  truth. 

"But,  cherie,"  she  added,  a  moment 
later,  "make  no  mention  of  this — not  even 
to  him,  your  father." 

"Oh,  no,  not  r».  word,  I  promise  you — 
although  it  woud  be  nice  if  I  could  thank 
him." 

Mamiiian  raised  a  finger  to  her  lips  : 

"Not  one  word!"  she  enjoined. 


10 


The  Golden  Poppy 


^73 


"Not  one  word,  Mumzie  dear,"  echoed 
Isabelle. 

She  crossed  the  room  to  where  her 
mother  was  standing  and  put  her  arms 
tenderly  about  her.  She  kissed  the  fur- 
rowed brow  and  said : 

"You  are  so  good,  so  kind!  I  cannot 
find  words  to  thank  you." 

Then  she  mounted  the  stairs  to  her 
room  and  wrote  the  good  news  to  David. 


!i 


1  •' 


C:.A1  TER  TWENTY. 


And  now  life  took  on  a  rosier  hue  to 
Randon.  He  saw  his  way  cleared  of  obsta- 
cles ;  his  mode  of  living  freed  of  enslaving 
restraint. 

Upon  receipt  of  his  wife's  letter  con- 
taining the  money,  he  wrote  her  that  it 
would  not  be  possible  for  him  to  leave  his 
work  at  St.  Malachi's  and  suggested  that 
she  might  conclude  her  visit  at  an  early 
date. 

?Ie  expressed  his  gratification  with  the 
fruitfulness  of  her  efforts  and  assured  her 
he  would  be  pleased  to  have  her  home 
again. 

Isabelle  sought  in  vain  for  some  ex- 
pression of  warmth,  some  hidden  spring 
of  affection  in  the  wording  of  the  formal 
note. 

The  tor.  of  condescending  superiority 

[174] 


The  Golden  Poppy 


175 


which  it  seemed  to  breathe  hurt  her  love 
for  him  more  ihan  it  offended  her  pride. 

She  waited  until  she  was  alone  in  the 
drawing-room,  where  a  maple  log  burned 
red  in  the  fire-place. 

Then  she  drew  the  letter  from  her 
breast  and  dropped  it  regretfully  in  the 
leaping  flames. 

She  watched  the  white  leaves  flare  and 
blacken  and  curl  into  char. 

What  secret  they  held  must  be  dead  to 
all,  even  to  her  mother.  She  would  suffer 
none  to  know  that  he  would  write  in  such 
a  tone  to  her. 

A  moment  later,  she  had  decided  to 
return  to  Montreal  the  following  day. 

On  her  way  to  the  village  station,  she 
stopped  at  the  college  to  make  her  adieux 
to  Pierre.  She  confided  to  him,  in  her 
naive  way,  that  her  father  had  been  very 
good  and  generous  and  had  advanced  her 
five  thousand  dollars  of  her  share  in  the 
estate.  Few  fathers  would  have  done  as 
much,  she  added  knowingly. 


I/O 


The  Golden  Poppy 


Pierre  ailed  anc'  agreed,  as  did  Mani- 
iian  Labcllc,  w!,)  had  come  with  her. 

Arri'  iig  ii  the  city,  slie  ;i'  once  called 
David  on  the  te!  )hone.  She  was  de- 
lig'tted  to  find  her  husband  in  a  happy 
mood.    T^e  would  be  home  at  six. 

Antoinette  lad  proved  herself  a  perfect 
housekeeper.  The  rooms  were  warm  and 
heery.  The  little  maid  beamed  an  honest 
welcome.  The  clock  in  the  library,  true 
to  its  tru'^t.  swung  its  pendulum  back  and 
forth,  hack  and  forth,  without  ever  a 
thought  or  care.  A  glad  shout  went  up 
from  children  at  jilay  in  the  street.  A 
folk  song,  "rAiiour  et  la  Vie,"'  reclined 
indolently  against  the  piano,  where  she 
had  left  it.  "Love  and  Life!"  Words  so 
few  ha  c  understood.  Black  worlds  of 
mystery.  Silver  mornings  of  promise. 
Elusive  and  fleeting,  as  the  sands  of  a 
mirage  waste. 

David  came  in  the  evening.  He  greeted 
his  wife  affectionately  and,  throughout  the 
dinner,  manifested  a  polite  interest  in  her 
laughing,     garrulous     account     of     the 


The  Golden  Poppy 


^77 


voyage.  He  expressed  himself  as  pleased 
with  his  good  fortune  in  having  obtained 
conge  f(^r  the  morrow,  whicli  was  Sunday. 

They  would  si^end  the  day  together,  at 
home. 

During  the  evening,  she  played  and 
s.-mg  an  old  ballad  of  which  he  was  fond. 
As  the  sweet  ^•oice  trailed  away  in  the 
last,  lingering  note  of  the  air,  he  bent 
down,  and.  putting  his  arms  about  her. 
kissed  her  fervently  upon  the  lips. 

She  tlirilled  under  the  magic  of  his 
touch  and  pressed  him  to  her  in  a  long 
embrace. 

He  had  never  done  this  before.  He  had 
appeared  to  her  to  be  hampered  by  a  nat- 
ural reserve,  which  it  was  beyond  his 
power  to  break  down  or  control. 

Was  this,  then,  the  awakening  of  the 
loAc  she  had  craved?  The  intonation  of 
their  bridal  hymn?  The  meeting  of  their 
souls  in  the  garden  of  scarlet  bloom  ^ 

Was  it  the  glad,  wild  hour,  of  which 
she  had  dreamed,  when  he  would  come  to 
her  and  lay  claim  to  her  gifts,  not  because 


i 


178 


The  Golden  Poppy 


she  was  his,  but  for  the  nobler  reason  that 
his  love  for  her  was  a  great  white  flame, 
that  could  never  grow  cold  and  die? 

Through  the  long,  still  night,  she  slept 
in  his  arms,  peaceful  and  dreamless,  like 
some  happy  child  that  has  roamed  the 
fields  and  come  home  to  rest  at  eventide. 


They  rose  late  and,  after  breakfast, 
went  for  a  stroll  in  the  park. 

The  day  was  beautiful. 

A  yellow  glimmer  of  sun  played  grate- 
fully upon  the  crusted  snow,  which  was 
thawing  on  the  edge  of  the  walks  and 
d  opping  liquid  pearls  into  the  gullies. 

Children  were  at  play  on  the  hillsides. 

Sparrows  chattered  in  little  groups 
among  the  stark  branches  of  the  trees, 
elated  with  the  kindly  warmth  of  the  sun. 

David  was  in  high  spirit:..  He  smoked 
numerous  cigars  and  spoke  incessantly  of 
his  career.  He  would  be  famous.  He 
would  attain  the  pinnacle.     There  would 


The  Golden  Poppy 


179 


be  no  half-way  point  in  his  ascent  to  fame. 
What  had  been  done  by  others,  he  could 
do.  Nothing  was  inipossil)le — to  one  who 
possessed  the  ability  and  the  will  to  do. 
The  world  would  hear  from  him.  Ju  a 
few  years,  and  then — 

"And  then,  greatness,"  spoke  Isabelle. 

And,  after  a  moment's  silence,  wist- 
fully: 

"Let  us  hope,  David,  dear,  that  when 
greatness  comes  to  you  love  will  not  flit 
away." 

"Love?"  he  rejoined,  abstractedly. 

"Yes,  love,  my  dear.  What  is  life 
without  it?  Is  it  not  the  source  of  every- 
thing worth  while  in  life?" 

"Why,  yes,  of  course,"  he  agreed 
vacantly. 

They  had  walked  for  some  time  when 
he  added,  sygely,  taking  a  cigar  from  the 
case: 

"Love,  as  I  view  it,  is  a  mutual  attrac- 
tion between  the  sexes,  which  is  an 
essential  incentive  for  the  propagation  of 
the  species." 


Ill 


iHo 


The  Golden  Poppy 


He  cleared  his  throat  and  hghted  the 
cigar. 

Isabelle  glanced  up  into  her  husband's 
face,  her  eyes  great  with  wonder. 

But,  she  said  no  more,  though  her 
thoughts  whirled  and  clashed  and  her 
heart  pounded  madly. 

They  spoke  but  little  on  the  way  home. 
The  Tabors  came  in  the  afternoon.  De- 
mers  called  while  they  were  there.  During 
a  lull  in  the  conversation,  Tabor  turned  to 
the  subject  of  stocks.  He  rubbed  his  long, 
bony  hands  and  leered  at  Randon,  as  he 
said  in  a  low,  unctuous  voice : 

"Well,  Doctor,  I  turned  the  trick,  Fri- 
day, to  the  tune  of  sixty-seven  thousand." 

He  looked  slowly  from  one  to  another 
of  the  party,  and  back  again  at  Randon. 
His  greenish  eyes  fixed  steadily  upon  the 
young  inan,  he  rippled  into  a  low,  deep 
chuckle. 

"Sixty-seven  thousand!"  he  repeated. 
"That's  how  we  win,  my  boy:  by  sticking 
to  it.  You  see,  I  now  stand  seventeen 
thousand  ahead  of  the  fiftv  I  lost  with 


The  Golden  Poppy 


r8i 


you.    Never  give  up  the  ship.  lads.     Never 
say  die!" 

"Waldon  is  a  perfect  wonder,"  broke 
in  Mrs.  Tabor. 

He  raised  a  hand  to  stop  her.  grinning 
bashfully.    But,  she  would  not  have  it  so. 

"Waldon,  dear."  she  persisted,  "you 
know  you  are.  ^'ou're  a  wizard  at  finance. 
They're  all  afraid  of  you,  on  the  street." 

"Now,  what  would  you  do  with  such  a 
woman?"  he  asked,  turning  to  Derners. 
"She  insists  that  I  am  a  great  man — and 
me  striving  to  remain  unknown!" 

He  considered  this  a  very  good  joke; 
for  he  laughed  long  and  loudly,  clapping 
his  hands  on  his  knees. 

"I  think,"  said  Demers,  "a  wife  should 
talk  like  that  about  her  husband,  whether 
it  is  the  truth  or  just  a  little  stretch  of 
er — the  imagination.  It  is  very  nice  to 
have  the  admiration  of  your  wife — very 
nice." 

"You  must  be  sure  to  pay  us  a  visit, 
dearie,"  said  Mrs.  Tabor,  when  they  were 


1 82 


The  Golden  Poppy 


leaving-.  "N'dw  that  you  are  home  ap^ain, 
vvc  sh;t"  take  no  excuse." 

"\'es.  '  approved  Tabor,  'you  really 
iinist  come  o\er,  some  fine  day." 

Denier s  left  shortly  after  anil  David 
returnerl  to  St.  Malachi's  early  in  the 
evening. 

Alone  with  her  thoughts.  Isai)elle  went 
over  the  incidents  of  the  day.  One  by  oni- 
she  marshalled  them  before  iier.  The 
Tabors  she  did  not  like.  She  iieartily 
wished  they  would  tire  of  her  indifference 
and  discontinue  their  visits. 

Rene  Demers  was  a  i)leasin<4-  young 
fellow  with  good  (|ualities.  She  liked  him 
for  his  naturalness  and  aplomb.  He  was 
very  human. 

But,  David — and  as  she  reverted  to  him 
for  the  imndredth  time  that  day.  she  could 
see  him,  a  cigar  in  one  hand,  in  the  other 
a  match,  coolly  delivering  his  dictum  on 
love. 

She  had  been  inexpressibly  shocked  by 
his  words.  How  could  one  hold  such  an 
opinion  and  soar  above  the  base  realities? 


The  Golden  Poppy 


i«3 


She  could  not  brinpf  herself  to  speak  to 
fntn  further  on  the  subject.  It  was  re- 
voking to  her.  \  le  had  dragjj^ed  her  ideals 
into  the  niire  before  her  eyes. 

To  follow  his  view,  love  was  not  love 
at  all;  but  a  mere  trick  of  nature,  designed 
to  bring  the  sexes  together  to  the  end  that 
others,  imbued  with  the  same  instincts, 
should  come  into  being;  and  so  on  ad 
infinitum.  No,  no,  a  thousand  times! 
There  was  a  higher  aim  than  that  in  the 
scheme  of  things. 

She  thougiu  of  Pierre,  walled  away  in 
his  grim  retreat. 

Would  he,  too,  have  spoken  thus  of 
love? 

Would  he,  the  playmate  of  the  meadows, 
have  trampled  under  foot  this  exquisite 
flower  ? 

Perhaps  she  was  wrong.  But,  if  so,  then 
the  truth  was  a  scathe  and  a  blight ;  and 
she  had  no  desire  t(^  tread  its  pathways. 

Weary  of  heart,  she  sought  the  solace 
of  sleep. 


i  i 


HI 


MICROCOPY    RESOLUTION    TEST    CHART 

ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  No    2 


1.0 

Ui  |2.8 

inn  1 9 

I.I 

::  3  6 

It  1^ 

12.5 


2.0 


1.8 


1.4 


1.6 


^  /APPLIED  IM^GE     Inc 

^ri  ■     i   Ea<.l    M.j.--,   street 

r^  lester.    New    fork          1  "bUS        USA 

^=  ■  6)    482  -  0300  -  Phone 


i84 


The  Golden  Poppy 


She  awoke  with  a  violent  headache. 
Dayhght  was  streaming  in  about  her. 

She  sat  up  on  the  edge  of  the  bed  and 
became  conscious  of  a  dull  throbbing  in 
the  pit  of  her  stomach.  A  feeling  of 
nausea  mounted  to  her  throat.  The  ob- 
jects in  the  room  swam  before  her  eyes. 
Her  flesh  crept  with  chill.  Summoning 
her  strength,  she  called  Antoinette,  who 
hurried  in  from  the  kitchen. 

Her  mistress  had  fallen  backwards 
across  the  bed.  in  a  swoon. 

There  was  a  little  green  bottle  of  aro- 
matic salts  in  the  medicine  cabinet.  With 
this  and  a  cold  towel,  the  maid  revived 
Isabelle. 

She  filled  hot  water  bottles  and  wrapped 
the  patient  in  woolen  blankets. 

"Shall  I  call  Doctor  Randon?"  she 
ventured  dutifully. 

"Yes,  if  you  will,  Antoinette." 

She  had  been  absent  from  the  room  but 
a  few  minutes  when  she  returned.  She 
appeared  crestfallen. 

"Monsieur  le   Docteur  cannot  come," 


The  Golden  Poppy 


185 


she  announced.  "He  says  he  is  very  busy. 
He  told  me  to  call  Doctor  Marsh,  across 
the  street.  He  says  maybe  he  can  come 
tomorrow,  Madame." 

.Marsh  was  a  practitioner  of  the  old 
school.  He  came  in  without  bluster  and 
was  at  once  at  home,  in  a  quiet,  unpre- 
tentious way.    He  stayed  but  a  short  time. 

"A  touch  of  la  grippe."  he  announced 
when  he  had  completed  the  examination. 

"Keep  warm  and  don't  leave  your  bed. 
We  will  have  you  as  well  as  ever  within 
a  few  days." 

He  wrote  a  prescription,  which  he 
handed  to  Antoinette,  nodded  his  gray 
head  pleasantly  at  the  sick  woman  and 
took  his  leave. 

Two  days  of  crushing  loneliness 
dragged  slowly  by. 

Isabelle  had  not  heard  from  David. 

On  the  morning  of  the  third  day  he 
came. 

She  thrilled  at  the  sound  of  his  foot- 
steps. 

It  had  been  impossible  for  him  tc  leave 


f 


1 86 


The  Golden  Poppy 


the  hospital.  He  had  not  even  had  the 
time  to  telephone.  There  had  been  an 
tinusual  number  of  operations  and  the 
medical  wards  were  turning  away  fever 

cases. 

He  was  visibly  nervous  and  spoke  in  a 

tone  of  aloofness. 

He  took  her  pulse  and  temperature  and 
asked  her  why  she  had  not  engaged  a 

nurse. 

For  answer,  Isabelle  smiled  and  said 
she  would  be  well  within  a  day  or  two  and 
that  she  preferred  not  to  have  officious 
women  in  blue  gingham  fussing  around 
her  and  telling  her  what  to  do. 

He  glanced  at  his  watch.  He  must  be 
getting  back.  St.  Julien  was  to  do  a 
trephining  at  noon.  The  patient  had  been 
at  the  hospital  for  some  time,  gathering 
strength  for  the  operation.  The  theory 
was  that  the  man  carried  a  flattened  bullet 
in  the  brain.  An  X-ray  photograph  had 
told  them  as  much.  He  had  been  shot 
accidentally  some  three  or  four  years  ago. 
The  man  was  growing  quite  simple  and 


The  Golden  Poppy 


187 


cliild-like  of  late  and  complained  of  in- 
creasing p-ilns  in  his  head  Yes.  he  must 
be  going.  But,  he  would  come  again  soon. 
He  bent  down  and  touched  his  lips  to  hers. 
A  cold,  unloving  kiss.  She  must  t:ikt  care 
of  herself  and  remain  in  bed,  as  Marsh 
had  said.  As  Antoinette  came  in,  bearing 
a  tray,  he  left  the  room. 

A  moment  later  the  front  door  opened 
and  went  shut  behind  him. 

Isabelle  heard  the  sound  of  the  closing 
door.  It  fell  upon  her  like  the  grating  of 
the  lid  on  the  tomb  of  her  dreams. 

A  great,  surging  grief  rose  up  within 
her. 

She  buried  her  face  in  the  pillows  and 
gave  herself  up  to  tears. 

And  this  was  what  she  had  done  with 
her  life! 

She  had  pawned  herself  to  a  man  who 
thought  more  of  his  career  than  of  her. 

He  had  shown  himself  indifferent  to 
her  suffering,  insensible  of  the  finer  dic- 
tates. 

She  yearned  for  the  consoling  embrace 


1 88 


The  Golden  Poppy 


of  her  mother,  the  withered  little  woman 
in  Lamartinette  from  whom  she  had  never 
known  aught  but  love  and  kindness. 

Even  Philippe,  her  father,  would  change 
expression  at  the  sight  of  another's  pain. 

And  Pierre,  noble  Pierre !  Had  she  not 
seen  tears  in  his  great,  dark  eyes,  as  he 
bore   tenderly    in    his   arms    a   wounded 

lamb  ? 

What  was  there  in  the  heart  of  a  man 
that  caused  him  to  wed  a  woman  whom 
he  loved  no  more  than  David  loved  her  ? 

She  would  bestow  kindness  on  a  dog. 

Certainly  there  were  women  he  would 
love  more  than  this. 

She  rose  and  crossed  the  room  to  the 
dresser. 

She  gazed  at  her  reflection  in  the  glass. 

Her  hair  tumbled  in  a  golden  mass 
about  her  shoulders. 

Her  face  was  white  and  the  ej^es  weary 
and  swollen. 

A  cruel  thought  broke  in  upon  her. 

Could  it  be  that  he  had  turned  away 
from  her  because  he  had  found  her  thus 


The  Golden  Poppy 


189 


disheveled  and — oh.  no,  she  must  not 
think  of  such  things.  It  would  kill  her 
with  grief  to  know  that  he  was  of  such 
shallow  depths. 

The  headache  had  left  her.  She  felt 
weak  and  her  head  seemed  to  have  lost 
weight. 

But,  she  would  not  go  back  to  bed.  It 
was  too  lonely  there. 

She  would  dress  and  sit  by  the  window 
and  watch  the  children  at  play  in  the 
street  and  the  people  hurrying  by. 
Perhaps  she  would  feel  better. 
And  if  he  came  tonight,  she  would  sing 
and  play  his  favorite  song,  "Venez  Avec 
Moi  F'eter  le  Printemps." 

A.  gold  and  purple  sunbeam  slanted 
across  the  room.  It  gladdened  her 
strangely  with  hope. 

She  looped  up  her  wealth  of  hair,  that 
shimmered  like  fire  against  the  ivory 
paleness  of  her  skin. 

From  her  wardrobe  she  chose  a  loose- 
fitting  gown  of  cerise,  which  she  tied  about 
the  waist  with  a  tasseled  cordon  of  gold. 


m 


190 


The  Golden  Poppy 


At  her  full,  white  throat  she  pinned  a 
flying  dove,  jeweled  with  jade. 

When  she  had  done,  she  looked  in  the 
glass  and  smiled. 

"He  would  like  nie  now,"  she  told  her- 
self. 

Slowly  the  hours  droned  by.  She  could 
not  eat;  nor  read;  nor  rest.  Some  great 
calamity  hung,  like  a  cloud,  over  her 
head.  She  was  fraught  with  a  sense  of 
impending  disaster.  And  always  it  was 
he,  David,  who  stalked  before  her,  the 
bearer  of  evil. 

She  gazed  at  the  rushing  throngs  in  the 
street.  Whither  were  they  going?  What 
was  their  quest?  Where  the  goal?  Why 
this  grim  struggle  of  the  city,  this  panic 
of  souls,  and  stampeding,  for  a  little  to  eat 
and  something  to  wear?  Why  all  this 
fretting  and  feverish  haste,  when  the  road 
was  so  short  and  the  end  so  near  ? 

She  thought  again  of  David.  His  am- 
bition— that  was  it,  ambition  to  become  a 
great  man— had  already  wedged  its  way 
between  them.    It  was  true.    There  could 


The  Golden  Poppy 


191 


be  no  mistaking  it.  He  was  drifting  away 
on  a  glacier.  leaving  behind  the  shores  of 
happiness. 

And  yet,  she  nnised.  the  world's  great- 
est men  had  loved. 

A  thought  came  to  ner.  unbidden :  They 
were  the  truly  great. 

For  no  man  could  be  great  without  love. 

But,  she  quickly  shut  out  the  sugges- 
tion, being  too  proud  to  subject  him  to 
the  lens  of  comparison. 

She  crossed  over  to  the  piano  and 
played  until  the  shadows  had  deepened  in 
the  street.  And  when  it  was  late  and  she 
had  given  up  hope  of  his  coming,  she  stole 
away  to  bed,  like  a  weary  child. 


CHAPTKR    r\\  KXTV-ONF.. 


At  the  close  of  his  term  at  St.  Malachi's, 
Randon  set  about  to  en^^age  in  active 
practice. 

His  work  in  the  hospital  had  attracted 
favorable  conitncnt  from  the  visiting  phy- 
sicians and  surgeons. 

It  was  with  no  slight  degree  of  con- 
fidence and  determination  that  he  closed 
the  doors  of  the  grim,  gray  structure 
behind  him  and  turned  his  face  to  the  city. 

A  tour  of  the  supply  houses  and  office 
buildings  convinced  him  that,  in  order  to 
open  an  office  on  the  scale  which  he  con- 
templated, he  would  require  a  substantial 
increase  in  his  now  depleted  funds. 

He  thought  upon  the  matter  for  some 
time  without  evolving  a  plan  of  action. 

Calmly  he  surveyed  the  field  of  his 
potential  resources. 

[1921 


J'lic  (ioliicn   Pop{>\ 


193 


And  in  tin-  cml  Ik-  was  forced  to  the 
Imniiliatinj^f  adim-^Moii  lliat  tiicy  were  all 
harcly  possihlr,  no  more — all  hut   Isahelle. 

Uc'sidcs.  he  \\a>^  aware  that  am  refusal 
which  inij^ht  fiiier  on;  into  .t^ossij)  would 
militate  a}!;^ain^t  his  ihances  of  success. 

(  )n  a  luiniher  of  occasions  he  was  ahout 
to  hroach  the  sniiject  to  her. 

l>ut  eacli  time  his  eourai^e  failed  hini 
at  tlie  crucial  moment  and  he  remained 
>ilent  or  spoke  of  something'  else. 

And  in  the  end  it  was  Isahelle  herself 
who  inadverlentl}-  o])ened  the  way  to  the 
revelation  of  their  status. 

As  they  lino;cred  over  their  after-dinner 
cotTee.  one  evening,  she  said,  quite 
thoughtlessly: 

"When  are  you  thinking  of  opening  an 
oftice.  my  dear?" 

fie  replied  readily: 

"When  and  where  are  entirely  depend- 
ent on  the  question  of  funds." 

She  lowered  her  cuj)  slowly  to  the  saucer 
and  gazed  at  him  in  mute  astonishment. 

Unabashed,  he  went  on: 


194 


77; f  C olden  l'of>f>y 


"Surely  you  have  learned,  by  this  time, 
that  it  takes  money  to  live  in  the  city — this 
way.  i  have  but  a  few  Inuulred  dollars 
in  the  bank.  It  will  recjuire  five  thousand 
to  et|uip  an  oftice  and  ^^et  me  ^oinj^^  in 
practice. 

ilavinjj:  said  this,  he  felt  greatly  re- 
lieved. There  was  a  decanter  of  brandy 
on  the  buffet,  lie  rose  and  poured  him- 
self a  drink  of  the  liciuor.  Then,  he  lij^hted 
a  cigar  and  picked  up  the  evening-  jjaper. 
Isabelle  followed  him  with  wondering 
eyes.     Surely  he  could  not  mean — 

"You  see,"  he  broke  in  upon  her 
thoughts,  "1  am  peculiarly  circum- 
stanced." 

He  laid  the  paper  aside  and  went  on : 
"I  have  staked  everything  on  my  ca 
reer.  It  has  taken  every  dollar  of  my  own 
and  five  thousand  of  your  money  to  put 
me  where  I  am.  It  will  take  another  five 
thousand  to  make  me  known.  I  have 
thought  it  all  out.  There  is  no  other 
way." 


The  Golden  Poppy 


"^5 


"I  low  are  we  going  to  gei  ii,  niy  dear?" 
.iskcd  Isahc'llc. 

"I  don't  know."  lie  replied.  "I  know 
none  of  whom  I  could  ask  it  with  any  as- 
surance of  success." 

After  a  wiiile  he  added,  rather  lamely: 

'•\\e  will  have  to  think — to  plan  some 
wav  out.  r  ir.  it  would  he  useless  to  go 
on  without  money." 

She  made  no  rei)ly;  which  signified  that 
'^he  was  thinking.  He  was  well  pleased 
with  the  effect  of  his  words.  A  few  mo- 
ments later,  he  said  something  about  a 
])usiness  appointment  and  went  out. 

It  was  characteristic  of  Isabelle  to  de- 
ride, without  (|uiM)le.  that  he  should  have 
the  money. 

Rut,  she  realized  that  she  was  con- 
fronted by  a  task  of  no  mean  proportions. 
It  would  never  do  to  approach  her  father 
again ;  especially  within  so  short  a  time. 
Her  mother  might  suggest  a  way.  Or, 
something  else  might  happen  in  the  course 
of  her  quest — for  it  was  already  settled  in 
her  mind  that  she  would  do  her  utmost  to 


M 


196 


The  Golden  Poppy 


secure  the  needed  funds.  She  arrived  at 
no  more  definite  conclusion  at  that  time. 
It  would  require  much  thought  and  cau- 
tion. For,  one  false  step  might  hring 
disaster.  Secrecy  was  i)aramount.  It 
must  not  be  permitted  to  leak  out  that 
David  was  short  of  funds.  Only  the  one 
appealed  to  must  know.  Not  once  did  she 
question  his  judgment,  his  stewardship  of 
her  money.  What  disposition  he  had  made 
of  it  was  right — must  be  right.  She 
would  leave  no  stone  unturned  in  her  ef- 
forts to  aid  him.  It  was  plainly  her  duty 
to  do  so.  She  would  see  her  mother  and 
make  a  clean  breast  of  it.  Here  was  a 
friend  she  could  trust. 

And,  perhaps — Pierre!  Pierre  had 
seven  thousand  dollars.  He  had  told  her 
so  in  one  of  his  letters.  But,  how  was  she 
to  know  she  would  ever  be  able  to  repay 
it  ?  Supposing  he  left  the  order,  he  would 
need  it;  and  at  once.  And,  besides,  how 
could  she  ever  bring  herself  to  ask  him  for 
it?  Her  mother,  that  was  dififerent.  But, 
Pierre — 


The  Golden  Poppy 


197 


She  reverted,  in  the  end,  to  her  mother. 

Yes.  she  would  see  Mamman  and  talk 
with  her.  Alaninian  would  know.  When 
all  else  failed,  she  could  always  go  to  her. 
The  wonder  of  motherhood ! 

After  much  deliberation,  she  decided  to 
go  home. 


S!ie  felt  strangely  exhilarated  as  she 
rode  through  the  crowded  thoroughfares 
on  her  way  to  the  station,  a  few  days  later. 

Somehow,  the  city  with  its  deafening 
voices,  its  congested  lungs,  its  hectic, 
turbid  flow  of  life,  had  come  to  fall  upon 
her  as  a  dream  that  had  run  its  course 
and  turned  to  troubled  sleep. 

She  reached  Lamartinette  at  nightfall; 
and  rode  with  Ilissc.iette  to  the  home- 
stead. He  was  a  silent  man,  who  confined 
his  words  to  the  weather  and  the  crops. 
He  chewed  and  spat  with  the  gravity  of  a 
Huron. 


198 


The  Golden  Poppy 


As  the  gray  outline  of  her  father's 
house  loomed  in  the  moonlight,  a  chorus 
of  welcome  rose  to  greet  her,  from  the 
hrook  beyond  tiic  cornfield,  in  which  she 
and  Pierre  had  been  wont  to  wade  as  chil- 
dren. The  leafless  branches  of  the  trees 
reached  into  the  silvered  dimness  of  the 
night  like  unlighted  candelabra  in  nature's 
vast  cathedral.  Mounds  of  dead  leaves 
lay  along  the  way,  like  the  graves  of  the 
golden  summer  days  that  were  gone.  Ce- 
dars tapered  grimly  into  the  darkness, 
mute  symbols  of  dawnless  night. 

A  door  opened,  pouring  a  warm,  yellow 
light  over  the  yard;  then  closed  again. 

And  now  she  heard  a  well  known  voice 
and  felt  her  mother's  arms  about  her  in  a 
long,  throbbing  embrace.  Isabelle  strove 
to  speak.  But,  her  lips  trembled  on  the 
words  and  she  felt  very  close  to  tears. 

The  door  went  open  again.  Ernestine 
stood  in  the  framework,  peering  out  into 
the  darkness. 

"Ron  soir.  Madame  Isabelle,"  she  sang 
out,  her  voice  warm  with  welcome. 


The  Golden  Poppy 


199 


A  wonderful  gladness  welled  in  the 
heart  of  the  returning  child.  She  linked 
her  mother's  arm  in  her  own  and  hastened 
her  steps  towards  the  abode  that  was 
home. 


CHAPTRR  TWT- XTV-rW  (). 


Several  days  elajjsed  before  Isabelle 
could  bring-  herself  to  reveal  the  object 
of  her  visit. 

Mamnian  Labelle  listened  to  her  daugh- 
ter in  sympathetic  silence.  But,  she  was 
plainly  perplexed. 

She  knew  it  would  be  futile  to  approach 
Philippe  a  second  tune.  And  she  shrank 
from  the  thought  of  stripping-  Pierre. 

There  were  no  others  to  whom  she 
might  appeal 

And  while  she  was  not  given  to  cen- 
sure, she  could  not  dispel  the  conviction 
that  there  had  been  a  great  lack  of  judg- 
ment and  no  slight  degree  of  extrava- 
gance in  Randon's  management. 

However,  she  said  naught  of  this  to 
Isabelle.  I)eing  mindful  f  her  daughter's 
happiness  above  all  else. 

[200J 


The  Golden  Poppy 


20 1 


The  younjT^  wo'  ian  was  not  slow  to  note 
the  other's  mood. 

"It's  a  lot  of  money,  Mumzie  dear, 
isn't  it  ?"  she  said. 

"Indeed  it  is,  cherie,"  smiled  the 
mother,  "F  will  have  to  think.  Just  now, 
1  don't  see  what  can  he  done.  But,  we 
must  not  despair.  Let  me  have  a  little 
time.     We  shall  see." 

Philippe  now  spent  the  greater  part  of 
the  time  in  the  \'illai^e. 

There  were  even  nii^hts  he  did  not  come 
home,  sleeping;  at  the  widow  Duclos',  in- 
stead. 

One  ni,£^ht.  a  few  days  later.  Philippe 
hlustered  in  from  the  harns.  looking  for 
Bissonette. 

The  man  was  seated  at  the  kitchen  table, 
mending  a  trace. 

"Tomorrow  morning,"  said  Labelle, 
"the  stock  buyers  will  be  here.  They  have 
bought  up  all  the  feeders — cattle,  sheep 
and  hogs.  Make  sure  that  none  of  our 
regular  stock  get  mixed  up  with  the 
otliers.     Nazaire  will  bring  the  feeders  up 


202 


The  Golden  Poppy 


from  the  fields.  Vou  see  that  the  gates  of 
the  barnyard  are  closed  and  don't  let  them 
in." 

Hissonette  nodded  without  looking-  up. 

"Oui.  Monsieur,"  h  replied,  turning 
the  trace. 

The  stevedores  came  at  noon  the  fol- 
lowing day. 

Within  an  hour  the  sale  was  completed 
and  a  long,  mooing,  bleating  caravan 
climbed  the  ascent  in  the  road,  in  the  first 
stage  of  their  journey  to  death.  Shortly 
afterwards,  Philippe  drove  oflF  to  the  vil- 
lage. 

About  midnight,  Mamman  Labelle, 
who  was  waking,  heard  the  rig  turn  oflF 
the  road  and  cross  the  wooden  culvert 
that  bridged  the  ditch. 

A  moment  later,  Labelle  rolled  heavily 
out  of  the  carriage,  striving  desperately  to 
steady  himself  against  the  front  wheel. 

Horse  and  carriage  went  on  alone  to 
the  barns. 

Philippe  staggered  across  the  interven- 
ing space  of  yard  and  lurched  against  the 


The  Golden  Poppy 


203 


kitchen  door,  which  oi)ened  with  a  loud 
hang  and,  after  a  long  while,  closed  again. 

Maninian  listened  for  the  sound  of  his 
stei)s  on  the  stairway. 

Bnt  the  house  remained  rapt  in  dead 
silence.  She  grew  trouhled.  Perhaps 
something  had  happened.  She  had  no 
love  for  this  man.  The  onl\  sense  he 
aroused  in  her  was  one  of  loathing.  But, 
this  was  different.  It  was  her  duty  to  see 
if  he  was  hurt,  or — 

She  wrapped  a  cape  about  her  and  went 
down. 

In  the  dining-room  she  halted  and 
called:   "Philippe,  where  are  you?" 

She  received  no  answer :  and  passed  on, 
in  breathless  suspense,  to  the  doorway  of 
the  kitchen. 

Philippe,  seated  on  the  edge  of  a  chair, 
sprawled,  face  downward,  upon  the  table. 

Within  reach  of  his  hands  lay  a  crum- 
pled little  mound  of  bank  notes,  which  the 
drunken  man  had  taken  from  his  pocket 
to  count,  before  falling  asleep.  He  was 
breathing  heavily. 


204 


The  Golden  Poppy 


Maniman   called    liiiii    a,i;ain.      I  hit.    he 
made  n(i  resjjonsc. 

A  thought  stru<-k  her.  like  the  voice  of 
a  person  speaking: 

The  tnoney — Isahelle— whv  not? 

It  was  iiers.     Hers  as  much  as  his. 

He  was  S(|un-Klering  it   in   the  village. 

That  nameless  linnLT  was  eettinp-  it 

This  way  it  would  do  some  good.     At 
least,  it  would  he  spent  on  her  own. 

What  right  had  he  tf)  say  yes  or  no,  any 
more  than  she,  aho\it  their  common  hoard? 

She  stole  over  to  the  tahle  and  lowered 
her  ha'  d  to  tlie  notes. 

Slowly  her  lingers  closed  and  tightened 
on  the  crisp  green  hills. 

With  ■:  furtive  sweep,  'ler  hand  disap- 
peared beneath  the  cape. 

She  retraced  h^r  <teps  lo  the  dining- 
room  door. 

A  desire  to  make  sure  that  Philippe  had 
not  awakened  promi)ted  her  to  halt  and 
look  back. 


The  Golden  Popp\ 


205 


I  let"  blood  went  cold. 

In  tlic  window,  peerinj^  into  the  room, 
was  the  face  of  Xazaire. 

SnninioniniL;-  her  couraj^'e.  she  forced 
herself  to  maintain  a  seml)lancc  of  sang 
froid  and  stood  her  j^^roimd.  She  beck- 
oned her  brother-in-law  to  come  in. 

\\  hen  he  appeared,  shame-faced,  in  the 
doorway,  she  scrutinized  him  closely  for 
some  facial  intimation  of  what  he  might 
have  seen. 

He  remained  stupidly  sullen  under  her 
gaze. 

"Put  him  to  bed,"  she  said  quietly;  and 
turned  to  go  upstairs. 

"I  was  wondering  if  he  got  home,"  lied 
Xazaire,  sheepishly,  removing  his  cap.  "I 
saw  him  in  the  village  and  feared  for  his 
safety.  ^■ou  see.  he  was  showing  his 
money  to  some  pretty  bad  men  at  la  veuve 
Duclos'  and  I  thought  I  would  look  in,  on 
my  way  home,  to  see  if  he  was  safe." 

Tlien,  he  had  not  seen  her ! 

For.  if  ho  had,  he  would  not  be  able 
thus  to  mask  his  feelings. 


2o6 


The  (i  old  en  Poppy 


She  heaved  a  jj;real  sij^h  of  rehef. 

In  lier  room,  slie  hoUed  the  door  and 
counted  the  money. 

It  was  not  enotigh  ;  hut  it  would  have 
to  do. 

She  was  nif^di  to  collapse  from  the  ter- 
rific strain,  as  she  lowered  the  w  ick  in  the 
lamp  and  went  to  hed. 


Philip])e  was  up  at  daylii^ht.  She  heard 
him  searchinj^  the  house,  mutterinj^  to 
himself  the  while. 

After  a  time,  he  went  out  and  har- 
ne->sed  Charlemap^ne. 

.She  heard  hin^  gi'ive  a  quick  command. 
Saw  the  horse  plunj^e  forward.  And  now, 
her  heart  a-flutter,  she  stood,  screened  by 
the  mull  curtain  of  her  window,  and 
watched  the  carriage  roll  madly  over  the 
In'f^hway  to  the  crest  of  the  knoll,  where 
it  sank  from  view. 

Philippe  drew  rein  in  front  of  the  Du- 
clos  tavern ;  and  went  in. 


The  (iohicii  Pof>py 


20: 


riu'  widow  was  cleaninji^  glasses  behind 
the  bar.  Slie  tjlaticed  U()  in  puzzlement  at 
Labelle.  This  was  an  unusual  hour  fo- 
him  to  he  in  the  villag^e. 

"The  money!"  he  gasped,   rushing  up 
to  the  har.     "The  money  I  got  for  the 
feeders — it's  gone,  every  cent  of  it.   Where 
is  it?"     What  happened?     Don't  stare  at 
.lie  that  way!    Tell  me  where  it  is!" 
"Lost— all  that  money!" 
"No,  not    lost — stolen!     How  could  I 
have  lost  it  ?     Besides,  it  was  in  different 
pockets.     It  was  stolen,  I  tell  you.     Nom 
de  Dicu,  I  will  get  it  back  or  some  son  of 
the  devil  will  pay  dearly.    Come,  what  do 
you  know?     Where  is  it?     It  was  lost  in 
your  place,  you  know." 

"No,  I  did  not  know  that,"  the  woman 
replied  frigidly. 

She  laid  down  the  glass  towel  and 
stepped  around  in  front  of  the  bar  to 
where  Labelle  was  standing. 

Her  arms  went  akimbo  and  her  rose- 
red  cheeks  turned  the  dull  white  of  ivory 
as  she  said: 


2o8 


The  iioUicn  Poppy 


"\'our  iiK^ncy  \va>  ^t()IeIl,  \()u  say?" 

"Yes,  very  surely — it  was  stolen." 

"And  you  come  here  and  ask  nie  where 
it  is?  Do  you  know  that  \ou  are  calhnu 
mc  a  thief  ^" 

"l  can't  help  what  \ou  think.  The 
money  i^  ijone.  I  lo^l  it  liere,  in  \our 
place,  and  I  com"  l.eri'  to  i^et  it  hack.  N'ou 
know  who  >tole  it.  Xow,  that  is  j)lain 
truth,  is  it  not?'" 

rile  door  opened  and  a  nniuher  of  men, 
on  their  wa\    to  the  potteries,  trailed   in. 

Madame  Duclos  turned  to  the  tallest, 
a  hrawny,  hlack  haired  ^-lant  with  pierc- 
ing eyes: 

"Monsieur  (  ho(juette.  you  were  here 
last  ni,2:ht.  \ou  saw  Monsieur  Labelle 
showing-  fistfuls  of  money  to  all  who  came 
in? 

"Oui,  Madame.  He  waved  it  under  my 
nose  until  I  was  annoyed.  But  as  he  was 
in  his  cups,  I  said  nothing." 

"That  is  true."  chimed  others  of  the 
party.  "He  was  showing  it  to  all  who 
would  look." 


Tlw   (loldi'll    I'of'f^V 


2O0 


".And  i^  It  true  IIP  IK  it  that  I  hc^u^ed  hiiii 
to  put  his  tiiiiiicv  ui  lii>  ;)i)ck(.-t  atid  ,l;o 
home?" 

"Ahsdlutc'ly  intr  \'ut  (nu'r;  liut  a  tiuiii- 
lic'i"  n{  times." 

"Atid  now,  hi'  I)ur-;s  in  upon  nie  and 
>ays  that  hi-  was  rohled  ot'  his  money  last 
jiif^ht — here,  in  my  plaee:  and  telK  me  to 
my  teeth  that   !  know  the  tliiet!" 

'■'(!iat  is  wroni;,"  snapped  L'h(H|uette. 
sirichm;  up  to  l.ahelk-,  an  evil  'j;\\n{  in  his 
eyes.  1  s;;\\  yon  -tuiT  the  hills  into  vour 
pocket  jUst  as  yon  turned  to  go.  I  was 
sittinp^  at  that  lahle.  playint;  cards  witli 
Benoit.  I  wa-  t'.iein:^^  the  door  and  could 
see.  There  was  no  one  with  vou  and  vou 
went  out  alone.  Xow,  don't  you  ever 
again  say  that  you  were  rohbed  in  this 
place  while  I  was  here — for  I  would  choke 
you  like  a  rat.     Vmi  understand?" 

"Just  the  s::r.!e.  Monsieur  Choquette." 
rejoined  I.abelle  weakly,  "you  can't  blame 
a  man  for  con-iint,-  to  the  only  place  he  was 
in  and  expecting  to  find  some  trace  of  hi^ 
money?" 


_'I0 


The  Golden  Poppy 


"That  is  a  very  di liferent  tune  from  the 
one  you  sang  when  you  found  me  alone." 
spoke  Madame  Duclos.  "I  can  always  be 
civil  to  any  one.     Ikit,  to  he  called  a  thief !" 

"I  did  not  say  that,  Aladame  Duclos. 
But,  I  must  admit  that  I  was  hasty.  You 
see.  it's  a  lot  of  money,  and,  naturally,  I 
was  excited.  Let  us  forget  it  and  be  good 
friends.  I  shall  look  elsewhere  for  the 
money.  And,  if  it  is  gone,  it  is  the  fault 
of  none  but  Philippe  Labelle,  for  making 
such  a  fool  of  himself,  '\llons,  a  nice  little 
drink  for  us  all,  Madame  Duclos.  if  you 
please." 

They  clinked  glasses,  the  potters  drink- 
ing sullenly  to  the  truce. 

Philippe  made  no  mention  of  his  loss  at 
home.  Instead,  he  continued  to  search  in 
nooks  and  corners  about  the  house  and  in 
the  barns,  where  he  might  have  hidden  the 
money. 

Finally,  he  gave  it  up  as  lost. 

Never  once  did  he  suspect  his  wife,  so 
upright  did  he  ^now  her  to  be. 

Xazaire  said  not  a  word  of  his  exploit 


The  Golden   I'oppy 


21  I 


to  Philoniene,  who  was  asleep  when  he 
reached  home  after  drag^i^^inj^  Phihppe  uj) 
the  stairs  to  his  room. 

lie  had  seen  his  brother  at  the  widow 
iJuclos',  niaudhn  drinik.  liis  hand;:  full  of 
bank  notes ;  and  had  followed  him  home 
wUkA  from  the  village. 

It  had  been  his  intention  to  enter  the 
house,  when  all  was  <(uiei.  ana  take,  hiiii- 
self.  what  his  brother  denied  him  as  the 
wages  of  his  labor. 

His  plan  was  ttpsei  by  the  appearance 
of  his  brother's  wife  in  the  kitchen  door 
way,  just  as  he  raised  himself  to  the  win- 
dow and  i)eered  into  the  room.  So,  noth 
ing  was  left  for  him  to  do  but  to  put  tlie 
drunken  man  to  bed  and  go  home,  a  pre}- 
to  sullen  rage. 

"But,  never  mind,"  he  had  growled,  in 
savage  hate,  wheeling  about  on  the  high- 
way and  shaking  his  clenched  fist  at  the 
dim  outline  of  his  brother's  house.  "Never 
mind,  Philippe  Labelle,  some  day  you  will 
settle  vour  account  with  me!" 


CHAPTER    rWEXTV-TllRRF.. 


Pierre,  who  hrid  received  a  note  from 
Isabelle,  advisin<^  him  of  her  presence  in 
Laniartinette,  drove  out,  one  day,  to  the 
homestead. 

He  carried  a  lar^i,^e  black  leatlier  bag,  as 
thoug-li  he  might  be  about  to  go  forth  on 
a  journey. 

He  greeted  Isabelle  warmly,  his  face 
beaming  delight. 

She  wore  a  close-fitting  gown  of  black 
\elvet. 

On  lier  breast  was  a  butterfly  of  black 
and  gold;  and  in  her  shimmering  hair  a 
>now-white  immortelle,  from  her  mother's 
garden. 

Her  great  liazel  eyes  danced  with  the 
gladness  of  the  moiiicn'i.  Her  red  lips, 
parted    in   a   smile   of   welcome,   revealed 

1212J 


TJic  Golden  Poppy 


213 


flawless  pearls  of  teeth.    Her  bearing  was 
that  of  a  (|ueen  receiving  a  favored  prince. 

Never  had  she  appeared  so  lovely  to 
Pierre. 

When  the  greetings  were  over,  he  said 
to  Mrs.  Labelle,  pointing  to  the  bag  on 
the  floor: 

"I  have  conic  to  spend  a  Icvv  days  with 
you,  Maninian.  \\m  see,  it  is  like  this: 
I  have  completed  iny  novitiate;  and  as  I 
have  decided  not  to  t^ike  my  vows  at  this 
time,  I  obtained  permission  to  come  home 
for  a  short  while." 

"Ah,  oui,  the  vow.s — they  are  the  part- 
ing of  the  ways,"  spoke  Mamman.  "It 
was  very  wise  and  prudent  of  you  to  wait, 
if  you  have  any  doubt  of  your  calling. 
Then  there  will  be  nothing  to  undo — no 
false  step  to  regret." 

In  the  afternoon,  Pierre  and  Isabelle 
went  out  into  the  fields. 

Indian  summer  was  upon  the  land.  It 
was  a  gold  and  russet  day.  The  sun  shone 
warm  and  mellow  on  the  stubbled  earth. 

Here  and  there  a  belated  songster  flung 


214 


The  Goldcu  P'Ppy 


his  farewell  notes  to  the  lau^hinsj:  wind 
and  tlew  away. 

Tliey  pa>sed  over  ilie  windin^^  \)\\{\\  that 
led  to  the  woods. 

Mere  they  had  eunie  as  children,  to 
o;ather  sprint^'s  earliest  llower^.  when  the 
snows  had  thawed  and  the  trees  taken  on 
their  laee-work  of  tender  i^reen. 

Here  they  watched  the  chipninnk  store 
his  hoard  ;;L;,iin>l  the  hoary  months  of 
winter  and  marvelled  at  the  love-making 
of  the  hirds  and  the  hnildinj^  of  their  nests 
for  the  yonng. 

Thev  walked  on  until  they  came  to  the 
suq-ar  cabin,  in  the  heart  of  the  wood. 
Built  crudely  of  lo^^s.  the  little  structure 
had  stood  t''e  test  of  time,  weathering  the 
winds  and  the  rain,  steadfast  in  its  pur- 
pose to  serve. 

Above  their  heads,  in  the  maples,  gar- 
lands of  wine-tinted  leaves,  still  clinging 
to  the  parent  twigs,  crooned  the  death 
son*,  of  their  short  day. 

They  turned   from  the  soughing  trees 


The  Golden    ^oppy 


215 


and  followetl  the  co^v-tracks  that  skirted 
the  corn  field  down  to  the  hrook. 

They  came  to  a  liaw-tree,  laden  with 
scarlet  fruit,  of  which  they  had  been  wont 
to  eat  in  the  autumn  days  of  their  child- 
hood. 

A  fallen  oak.  humbled  by  the  blasts  of 
a  miq-hty  storm,  lay  on  the  edge  of  the 
peaceful  stream,  dreaming,  perhaps,  of 
the  grandeur  that  had  once  been  his. 

Pierre,  who  carried  his  cape  over  his 
arm.  spread  it  out  upon  the  trunk.  They 
seated  themselves  in  silent  accord. 

The  past  surged  in  upon  them  in  tu- 
multuous waves. 

Resurgent  memories  clamored,  insist- 
ent, about  them — from  the  purling  eddies 
of  the  brook,  the  glistening  lush  grasses 
at  their  feet,  the  little  swinging  foot 
bridge  that  spanned  the  babbling  stream. 

And  their  toy  ships,  which  they  had 
builded  and  sent  away  to  sea — symbols  of 
the  springtime  of  their  lives.  Where  were 
they  now?  To  what  distant  phantom 
shores  had  they  sailed? 


2l6 


The  Golden  Poppy 


"It  seems  as  though  it  were  but  yester- 
day," said  Isabelle,  "that  we  were  here,  a 
hoy  and  a  girl  at  play." 

"Yes,"  Pierre  replied,  "our  years  are 
like  the  grains  of  sand  in  an  hour-glass. 
They  have  soon  fled.  And  we  remain,  the 
outer  shells  of  what  we  were,  nursing  our 
sores  and  sipping  our  cup  of  bitterness. 
\'o\\  how  many  may  say,  when  they  have 
grown  old,  that  they  would  not  do  differ- 
ently, were  it  given  them  to  live  their 
lives  anew?" 

"Why,  you  frighten  me.  ^ierre."  she 
laughed.  "You  see.  we  are  both  quite 
young,  you  and  I,  and  it  will  be  a  long 
time,  many  years,  before  we  have  gotten 
to  be  the  mere  shells  of  what  we  are  today. 
Oh."  she  shuddered,  "what  an  ugly 
thought!  And.  besides,  I  hold  that  old 
age  should  be  both  happy  and  beautiful. 
Now.  for  example,  take  me:  why  should 
I  not  make  a  lovely  old  lady?" 

"You  will."  he  rejoined,  heartily,  not 
sharing  her  jest.     "But,  that  is  only  part 


The  Golden  Poppy 


217 


of  it.     I  pray  that  you  will  be  as  happy 
then  as  now." 

"I  know.  Pierre,  that  if  you  had  it  in 
your  power  you  woui^'  make  all  the  world 
happy.  As  for  me.  I  am  j^lad  that  I  see 
the  brighter  side  of  things.  I  would 
rather  think  of  the  immortelles,  that  do 
not  perish  like  other  Howers;  the  pines, 
that  are  always  green ;  the  faith  of  loving 
hearts,  that  believes  and  endures  through 
dark  and  bitter  days." 

"I  sometimes  think."  he  said,  "that  a 
kind  providence  arms  on-,  at  biith,   for 
the  struggles  one  is  destined  to  encounter 
in  life.     Now,  there  is  my  little  bossu,  a 
hunchback  for  life;  and  "Patsy,"  my  one- 
legged  boy :  both  hopelessly  crippled ;  un- 
fitted for  the  contest,  one  might  say.     And 
yet,  the  two  oi  them  vie  with  each  other 
in    sunshine    and    sheer    devilment,    and. 
seemingly  without  efifort,  divide  between 
them   the  honors  of  the  class.     On  the 
other  hand,   big,  strapping  fellows  with 
never  a  care  but  for  their  meals,  do  well 
to  maintain  a  heroic  defense  of  the  tail 


2l8 


The  Golden   Popjoy 


end.  My  thought  is  that  there  is,  in 
reahty,  a  well  planned  scheme  of  things. 
The  fool,  the  apparently  unfit  may,  per- 
haps, be  essential  to  the  general  balance. 
This  much  is  sure,  they  are  happy  by  vir- 
tue of  their  limitations." 

She  looked  up  suddenly  into  his  face 
and  said: 

"And  you,  Pierre — you  are  happy?" 
A  pebble  rolled  down  the  bank  into  the 
water. 

A  frog,  disturlxid  in  his  nap  on  the  point 
of  a  sun-kissed  rock,  plunged  into  the 
brook. 

Overhead,  a  crow  flew  by.  cawing. 

Pierre  gazed  into  her  eyes  without 
speaking — those  deej),  gray  wells  of  soul, 
that  reflected  the  color  of  dawn,  the  fires 
of  the  noon-da V  sun. 

He  did  not  spe  k  at  once.  He  was 
strangely  mov^d.  He  felt  the  thrill  of 
warm  red  wine  m  his  veins,  the  dizzying 
surge  of  a  great,  unreasoning  desire 
mounting  to  his  head  and  blinding  him  to 


llw  (, olden   I'of'hx 


219 


all  hui  her.  the  wonder-child  of  his  boy- 
iiDod,  the  lost  treasure  of  his  full  estate. 

\\  ith  i,^riin  resolve  he  stayed  the  rising 
tide  of  his  emotions,  more  from  a  feeling 
of  shame  at  his  weakness  than  from  the 
prompt ii;os  of  his  moral  code.  He  felt 
relief  at  the  sound  of  his  own  voice,  as, 
presently,  he  replied: 

"Happy:'  Oh,  yes,  very  surely.  I  am 
quite  happy." 

A  white  cloud  rose  of  out  of  the  west 
and  raced  across  the  hlue  dome  of  the 
heavens. 

Somewhere  in  the  distance  a  cow-bell 
tinkled  drowsily. 

A  team  of  oxen,  driven  by  the  young 
Larochc.  the  miller's  son,  swung  slowly 
up  out  of  the  valley  to  the  crest  of  the 
knoll  in  the  road ;  and  then  beyond. 

\W  and  l.y.  liu-  dres  died  in  the  west- 
er incr  ?un  and  the  winds  that  had  sung 
and  caressed  them  grew  sharp  and  chill. 

She  o^lanced  at  the  blue  hills,  far  away, 
that  seemed  to  rise  up  from  the  bosom  of 
the  earth  to  greet  the  descending  orb. 


220 


The  Golden  I'oppy 


"The  sun  is  settitii::,  Pierre." 

A  f^reat  scarlet  s^lohe  inin^  suspended 
over  a  tunjuoise  peak,  like  a  jrarish  lan- 
tern. 

Slowly  it  sank  below,  tirinjj^  the  clouds 
in  its  wake  until  they  seemed  a  rolling 
mass  of  g^old  and  c()i)j)er. 

Pierre  turned  to  Isabelle. 

"Shall  we  go?" 

"Yes."  she  replied,  wistfully,  he 
thought. 

Then,  she  added,  taking  his  arm  and 
pointing-  to  a  little  i)ath  now  partly  hidden 
from  view  by  s])rawling  grasses : 

"Through  the  wheat  field,  Pierre, 
where  the  poppies  grew." 


ClIAI'Tl  k  TW  i:\TN--F()UR. 


As  thcv  c;mic  around  from  the  fields  to 
the  front  of  the  house,  Isahelle  was  aston- 
ished to  see  F-Jandon  stanchnq-  with  her 
father  on  the  veranda. 

She  had  no  intimation  from  David  of 
any  intention  to  visit  Lamartinette. 

Instinctively  her  thou,<:^hts  flew  to  the 
money,  which  was  tlie  ohject  of  her  home- 
coming^. 

She  was  torn  hy  emotions  of  shame  on 
the  one  hand:  on  the  other,  of  foreho(hn{7. 

As  slie  and  Pierre  neared  the  steps. 
David  nodded,  snuhn^-.  Me  stepped  away 
from  Lahelle  to  greet  his  wife.  He  took 
her  hand  in  his  own  and  kissed  her  on  the 
hps.  He  o^rasped  Pieric  hy  the  hand, 
loosely,  in  a  formal,  perfunctory  way. 

And  now  he  turned  hack  to  his  father- 
in-law  and  resumed  his  conversation. 

[2211 


222 


I  In-  (>  olden   Poppy 


lie  was  irreproachably  attiri'd.  Tlu-ro 
\va>  a  liar>li.  jan^j^lini^  contrast  between 
the  iintiiaculate  elei^aiice  of  the  younsz  doc- 
tor and  the  coarse,  ill-t"ittin,<;-  frieze  of 
l'hili|)i)e,  wliosc'  loiiLj-le^-.i^ed  boots  told 
plainly  of  a  recent  trip  to  the  stables. 

Isal)elle  foil-  wed  Pierre  into  the  lu)use 
and  straitxh'wav  son^-h'  her  mother,  who 
wa-<  directing   i'rnestiiie  in  the  kitchen. 

"Come,  my  child,"  said  .Maniman;  and 
led  her  awav  to  her  roMui.  where  she 
bolted  the  door.  Tioini;-  over  to  her  dress- 
er, she  nnlocked  the  lower  drawer  and. 
from  beneath  a  pile  of  linen,  brou^^ht  forth 
a  roll  of  bank  notes,  which  she  handed  to 
her  (l.iU!.diter.  sa\in,tj^: 

"'rwenty-eija:ht  hundred  dollars,  cherie. 
It  is  all  1  could  t^et.  I  hope  it  will  do;  for 
it  will  be  impossible  for  me  to  secure  any 
more.  I  have  m^t  brouu^ht  up  the  subject 
of  the  money  sooner,  because  I  would  have 
preferred  not  to  speak  of  it  until  you  were 
about  to  leave.  But.  now  that  David  has 
come,  it  is  imperative  that  I  speak  to  you. 
And,  while  I  am  about  it.  I  might  as  well 


The  C olden  I'oppy 


223 


ac(|uaint  y(ni  with  the  true  circumstances 
surrounding^  hotli  transactions.  Your 
fatl'.cr  refused  point  blank  to  advance  the 
first  sum  of  live  tliuusand.  ho,  I  went  to 
Pierre,  who  let  me  have  it  gladly." 

■■['ierre!"    e.\<l;iiiii(.'(l    Isahrlle.    coloiiiij^ 
deeply. 

"Yes,  my  dear.  It  was  all  that  was  left 
me  to  do.  1  had  your  welfare  in  mind,  of 
course;  and  your  hai)nine>s.  This,''  point- 
inj^  to  the  notes  in  her  ilauj^^hter's  hand, 
"1  took  from  your  father,  as  he  sprawled 
over  the  kitchen  table  in  a  drunken  ;  ii:por. 
He  does  not  suspect  the  truth.  Nov.,  my 
child,  you  know  all.  I  hope  your  husband 
will  decide  to  return  to  Montreal  some 
time  tomorrow.  You  see,  David  and  your 
father  should  be  kept  apart.  There  is  nn 
tellinj,'-  what  mig^ht  transpire  to  make 
Philippe  suspicious  of  the  truth." 

.\  wa\e  of  shame.  mine^Ied  with  indii^- 
nation.  swept  over  [sabelle,  as  the  bitter 
words  ])oure(l  from  her  mother's  lips. 

Then.  Pierre  knew;  he  had  knowii.  all 
alon.L;.  tha«^  she  and  David  had  merelv  bob 


224 


Tlic  (ioldcii  Poppy 


stcred  up  a  senihlance  of  success  and  pros- 
perity! And  it  was  his  money  that  had 
enabled  them  to  pose  in  Montreal!  Why. 
the  "ery  dress  she  was  wearini;-  at  this 
moment  had  been  i)urchased  with  funds 
l)elong-in,i^  to  I'ierre!  The  underg-arments 
of  tlhny  silk — llu'  costly,  emi)roidered 
iiose,  tlie  dehc;itel\  beaniiful  sh(X\s — iii.s. 
P*ierre's  money,  had  ])aid  for  them  all! 
Oh.  this  was  too  much! 

She  did  not  find  it  in  her  heart  to  blame 
her  mother,  who  had  (ione  e\  t,  rNtlnnj,'-  for 
the  best.  But.  oh.  uhv  had  fate  conspired 
thus  to  humiliale  and  chea])en  her? 

Maniman  had  turned  lo  the  dresser  and 
was  ciosin^i,^  the  drawer. 

Isahelle  left  her  in  silence. 

She  went  to  lier  room  and  flung-  herself 
upon  the  bed.  her  face,  fired  with  shame, 
buried  in  the  pillows. 

l->nc-^tine  called  her  for  the  eveninc: 
meal.  Ilut  she  difl  not  jro  dovvn.  .Soon. 
she  heard  footstei)s  in  tne  hall.  .\  moment 
later  David  entered  tiie  room  and  clo.sed 
the  door.    Isabelle  iiad  risen  from  the  bed. 


The  Golden  Poppy 


225 


She  was  seated  at  the  window,  gazing  out 
into  the  gloaming.  Randon  crossed  over 
to  a  seat  near  his  wife  and  came  straight 
to  the  point: 

"1  came,"  he  began,  "to  see  about  the 
money.  Vou  ha\'e  been  gone  from  home 
some  time  and  1  expected  to  hear  from 
yon  before  this." 

"1  wrote  you  a  day  or  two  after  my 
arrival/'  she  replied,  "but  received  no  re- 
ply from  you." 

"Ves  but  you  made  no  mention  of  the 
money,  in  your  letter— that  was  what  I 
wanted  to  know  about." 

"Oh!" 

"Well,  what  I  mean  to  say  is  that  it 
was  the  all-important  thing — for  both  of 
us,  you  know." 

"T^  -e  it  is— all  I  could  get.  All  I  will 
be  c  ro  get.  My  mother  gave  it  to  me 
a  little  wiiile  ago.  after  I  came  hotr.e  from 
the  fields.  My  father  is  not  to  be  ap- 
proached. He  refuses  to  advance  a 
dollar. 


226 


The  Golden  Poppy 


"But.   llie   first   tive   thousand:    didn't 


"No.  He  refus^^d.  I  have  just  learned 
the  truth  from  my  mother.  She  then  went 
to  Pierre.    He  let  her  have  it." 

He  flattened  the  bills  on  the  dresser  and 
counted  the  money  eajyerly. 

"Twenty -eight  hundred  dollars,"  he 
announced,  when  he  had  done.  And, 
wheeling  about  to  face  her:  "This  will 
never  do.  It  destroys  all  my  plans.  It 
swamps  me!" 

"It  makes  almost  eight  thousand  dol- 
lars in  all,  David.  I  am  sorry  if  it  is  not 
enough.    But  it  is  all  I  can  do." 

"If  I  thought  I  could  reason  with  your 
father,  I  would  try  to  show  him  the  error 
of  his  way." 

"My  father  is  not  one  to  be  easily  per- 
suaded to  part  with  his  money.  I  am  quite 
sure  it  would  be  useless,  David." 

He  stood  a  moment  in  thought,  his 
hands  behind  his  back. 

"Then.  I  will  leave  tonight.  There  is 
nothing  to  accomplish  by  staying  here." 


Tlie  Golden  Poppy 


227 


He  looked  at  his  watch : 

"There  is  a  train  for  Montreal  due  here 
at  ci.L^ht.  That  will  give  me  just  time 
enoug^h  to  drive  in.  Will  you  tell  them 
downstairs?" 

"I  will  drive  you  to  the  station  myself," 
she  replied,  "in  the  car." 

She  was  piqued  hy  his  coldness,  deeply 
wounded  hy  the  arrogance  of  his  hearing 
towards  her.    She  rose  to  her  feet. 

"I  iinist  sec  I-Jissonette."  she  said,  "to 
make  sure  the  car  is  ready." 

He  followed  her  downstairs;  and  re- 
mained in  the  dining-room,  with  Mam- 
man,  while  his  wife  went  out  in  search  of 
the  man. 

At  the  last  moment,  Isahelle  complained 
of  a  headache  and  decided  not  to  accom- 
pany him  to  the  station. 

The  parting  was  cold  and  formal.  Yes, 
she  would  stay  and  have  a  nice  visit  while 
she  was  here.  Oh.  she  would  take  good 
care  of  herself.  And  he  must  tell  An- 
toinette to  water  the  ferns. 


228 


The  Golden  Poppy 


She  was  very  brave  when  he  swept  his 
hps  over  hers  in  a  swift,  fleeting  kiss. 

In  a  trice,  he  had  chmbed  to  the  seat 
and  the  car  was  rolling  down  the  drive- 
way. 

She  smiled  and  waved  her  hand  to  him 
as  he  glanced  back,  at  the  turn  in  the 
road.  The  tail-light  glimmered  like  a 
glow-worm  in  the  gloom  of  early  night; 
rosf  swiftly  to  the  peak  of  the  knoll ;  and 
nickered  out. 

Mamman  and  Pierre  were  seated  in  the 
kitchen  when  she  went  in.  She  lighted  a 
lamp  and  bade  them  good-night. 

"Shall  we  drive  to  the  Point  tomorrow. 
Isabelle?"  said  Pierre. 

"Yes— I  shall  be  glad  to  go.  Pierre," 
she  replied.  "The  scenery  must  be  beau- 
tiful at  this  time." 

She  wanted  to  remain  with  them  a 
while;  to  sit  and  chat  and  watch  the  flames 
leaping  in  the  fireplace.  But  her  heart 
was  too  full ;  too  sad.  Dazed  by  a  new- 
born fear,  she  climbed  the  stairs  to  her 
room ;  and  went  to  bed. 


The  Golden  Poppy 


22g 


During  the  days  that  followed,  Pierre 
and  Isabelle  spent  much  of  the  time  to- 
gether, roaming  the  fields  and  the  wild- 
wood,  revisiting  scenes  endeared  to  them 
by  childhood  memories,  in  the  serene  com- 
radeship of  perfect  understanding. 


Nazaire  said  to  Philomene,  one  day, 
over  his  soup: 

"It's  strange  is  it  not,  bonne  femme? 
They're  never  apart,  those  two.  Where 
you  see  one  you  see  the  other.  Now,  why. 
I  ask  you.  did  she  not  marry  Pierre,  in- 
stead of  that  silk  hat  from  the  city?  He 
struts  about  like  a  peacock.  T  don't  like 
him!" 

"Each  one  to  his  taste,  mon  vieux,"  re- 
plied his  wife.  "You  can't  account  for 
the  foolish  things  a  young  girl  will  do. 
Look  at  me   for  example." 

"Eh  bien — what  about  it?" 


230 


The  Golden  Poppy 


"Why.  you  know  well  enoiiiTh  that  I 
could  have  had  my  choice  of  a  doy.en  splen- 
did matches.  And,  instead  ol  using-  ^ood 
sense.  I  chose  to  live  in  povertv." 

"Yon  speak  like  one  who  is  touched  in 
the  head,  honne  femme.  Pretty  soon  you 
will  he  needing  a  doctor.  I'm  thinking. 
I'm  (|uite  sure  you're  no  worse  off  now 
than  when  I  saw  you.  for  the  first  time, 
peeling  potatoes  in  the  Bessette  kitchen. 
Talk  sense,  bonne  femme.  Else,  say 
nothing." 

"Just  the  same.  I  have  sense  enough  to 
know  that  I  would  not  he  playing  second 
tiddle  to  a  rich  brother,  besides  adding  to 
his  wealth  by  my  daily  toil.  I  have  sense 
enough  to  know  that,  my  good  man — 
understand?" 

"I  understand  a  good  many  things. 
That's  not  where  the  trouble  lies.  It's 
getting  them  into  action  after  you  under- 
stand them.  Now,  is  that  clear  to  you? 
Vou  are  forever  holding  that  good-for- 
nothing  before  my  eyes.    You  preach  and 


The  Golden   Pnpp\ 


231 


nag  and  scold  about  him  until  I  wish  you 
both  to  the  devil.  Now.  since  you  are  so 
wise,  you  tell  me  what  I  am  to  do.  I  am 
listening.     Tell  me!" 

"Ureak  his  ntck."  snapped  Philomene, 
rising  to  refill  her  bowl. 

"I  thought  as  nmch,"  rejoined  Nazaire. 
"You  preach  to  me,  but  you  yourself  have 
no  remedy  Xo  offer." 

There  was  silence  for  a  space.  Pres- 
ently, Philoniene  turned  from  the  soup  pot 
to  face  Nazaire. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "suppose  Philippe  did 
break  his  neck — accidentally?  Suppose 
he  fell?" 

Nazaire  stared  at  his  wife  in  mute  as- 
tonishment.   At  last  he  spoke : 

"Nom  de  Dieu,  you  are  a  wicked 
woman !  On  my  soul,  I  believe  you  would 
doit!" 

So  saying,  he  picked  up  his  cap  and  hur- 
ried out  of  the  house.  Philotncne  watched 
him  through  the  window  until  he  had  dis- 
appeared behind  the  pig-stye.    Then,  v/ith 


232 


The  Gclden  Poppy 


a  shrug  of  her  shoulders,  she  went  back 
to  her  soup. 

Through  the  long  afternoon  Nazaire 
wielded  the  flail  in  his  brother's  barn. 
With  machine-like  precision,  the  loose- 
hanging  club  swung  in  a  deadly  circle 
over  his  head  and  struck  the  rattling  pea- 
vines  at  his  fee^  But,  he  gave  little 
thought  to  the  work  in  hand;  and  was 
more  like  a  clock  that  tells  off  the  hours 
without  recking  of  time  or  tide. 

He  saw  but  the  hate-driven  face  of  his 
wife  as  she  stood  by  the  kitchen  stove.  He 
heard  no  sound  but  the  rasp  of  her  voice, 
cold  and  unyielding,  pointing  the  way. 

Philippe  came  into  the  barn  towards 
evening. 

"How  much  have  you  done  ?"  he  asked, 
with  the  jovial  air  which  he  affected  at 
times. 

"You  can  see,"  said  Nazaire,  with  a 
sweep  of  >^he  hand  towards  the  sacks  of 
peas. 

"A  good  day's  work,"  commended  the 
great  man. 


The  Golden  Popp\ 


^Zi 


Nazaire  swung  the  flail  aloft  and  struck 
into  the  rhythmic  thud. 

He  was  numbly  aware  of  a  feeling  of 
guilt,  which  Closed  his  lips  in  silence  and 
lowered  his  eyes  before  his  brother's  gaze. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FIVE. 


Isabellc  remained  at  Laniartinette  until 
the  middle  of  December. 

Throughout  her  stay  at  the  homestead 
she  received  occasional  letters  from  Da- 
vid, which  were  largely  of  a  perfunctory 
nature  and  general  in  tone.  He  had  in- 
variably omitted  any  reference  to  his 
progress  in  establishing  an  office;  but  re- 
peatedly emphasized  the  drain  on  his  re- 
sources resulting  from  the  demands  made 
upon  him  by  what  he  termed  the  winning 
of  his  goal. 

Reluctantly  and  with  anguish  she  came 
to  realize  that  those  ideals  which  were  to 
her  the  very  essence  of  happiness  passed 
above  his  head,  like  summer  clouds,  un- 
known and  unseen. 

She  had  builded  a  castle  on  the  moun- 

[234] 


rite  Golden  I'otpy 


235 


tain  tf)p  and  liad  entered  in  to  await  his 
coming. 

But,  he  had  remained  below  in  the  val- 
ley, his  vision  obscured  by  the  blur  of  the 
mists. 

Upon  her  return  to  Montreal,  David 
met  her  at  the  station.    They  drove  home. 

On  the  way  through  the  crowded 
streets,  he  told  her  that  he  had  taken  "an- 
other chance  on  wheat."  and  lost  a  thou- 
sand dollars.  He  spoke  in  a  matter-of- 
fact  tone,  going  on  to  explain  that  he  had 
acted  for  the  best. 

"Nothing  risked,  nothing  won,"  he 
said. 

Tabor  had  induced  him  to  try  again; 
and  had  handled  the  money  together  with 
his  own.     He.  too.  had  lost;  and  heavily. 

Isabelle  remained  silent.  She  da  -ed  not 
trust  herself  to  speech.  Her  whole  being 
rose  up  in  hot  rebellion.  It  was  unjust 
and  unfair  thus  to  gamble  away  the  goods 
of  another,  for  which  he  had  saved  and 
striven  and  toiled.  It  was  a  wanton  abuse 
of  her  mother's  loving  trust.     It  would 


236 


TJii"  Golden  Popl^y 


never  occur  again.  Not  through  any  aid 
of  hers. 

She  dill  not  (luestion  tho  motives  of 
David.  I5ut.  certain  it  was  that  his  hun- 
ger for  sliovv  and  afthicncc  had  gotten  the 
better  of  liis  good  sense.  He  was  being 
led  away  by  the  false  faces  of  ajipcarance. 
But,  not  she.  A  thousand  dollars!  One 
would  have  thought  it  was  watc; ,  or  air — 
the  way  he  referred  to  it.  And  this  Ta- 
bor— how  did  David  know  what  he  had 
done  with  the  money?  No,  it  was  not 
right.  It  was  wrong,  very  wrong.  In- 
stinctively she  shrank  from  the  thought 
that  she  had  been  a  party  to  what  she 
considered  the  fleecing  of  her  people. 

"So,  you  are  little  better  off  than  you 
were,"  she  ventured. 

"I  have  furnished  an  office,  purchased 
surgical  supplies  and  paid  off  a  number  of 
bills.  I  now  have  a  balance  of  something 
hke  six  hundred  dollars.  Not  so  bad, 
everything  considered.  By  the  way, 
Demers  dropped  five  thousand  on  the  same 
day." 


riw  Li  old  en   f'oppy 


-'37 


"Did  Tahor  act  for  Deiners — handle 
the  money  for  him,  too?"  asked  Isabelle. 

"Oh,  yes." 

"How  did  Demers  feel  about  it?" 

"Pretty  glum.  Hut,  he'll  get  over  it. 
\\)U  see,  his  fath-r  has  money.  Why  do 
you  ask  ?" 

■\\  ell.  it  seems  strange  to  me  that  Ta- 
bor is  willing  to  take  on  all  this  responsi- 
bility for  other  i)eoi)le's  money  if  it  means 
no  added  advantage  to  him." 

"Oh,  I  presume  it  does  give  him  in- 
creased prestige  on  the  Exchange,  or  with 
bis  brokers." 

"Who  are  his  brokers?" 

"I  can't  say,  as  lie  prefers  to  work  under 
cover;  to  remain  unknown.  In  this  way 
he  enjoys  more  freedom  of  action." 

"But,  David,  his  standing,  his  reputa- 
tion— what  do  you  know  about  him? 
Really,  it  all  seems  very  strange  to  me." 

Me  forced  a  careless  laugh. 
"Suspicion  of  other  people's  motives," 
he  rejoined,   "is  bucolic,  countrified.     It 
smacks  of  the  unsophisticated.    You  must 


238 


The  Golden  Poppy 


believe  the  other  fellow  to  be  honest  until 
he  forces  you  to  think  otherwise." 

Isabelle  was  sick  at  heart.  She  made 
no  reply.  A  moment  later  they  swung 
around  onto  Sherbrook  stree'.  and  were 
home. 

One  evening,  a  few  days  later,  Demers 
.  id  Fantine  called  on  the  Randons.  Da- 
vid had  not  yet  come  home. 

Fantine  nas  a  charming  little  brunette, 
with  snowy  teeth  and  dancing  black  eyes. 
A  diminutive  parcel  of  happiness, 
wreathed  in  smiles. 

They  remained  but  a  short  while. 
When  they  were  leaving,  Demers  en- 
quired, in  a  casual  way,  whether  Isabelle 
had  seen  the  Tabors  since  her  return  to 
the  city. 

No,  she  had  not,  she  replied.  In  fact, 
interviews  with  the  Taborr  came  a  trifle 
too  high  for  her  means. 

She  had  no  sooner  spoken  than  she  re- 
gretted her  words. 

Demers  colored  and  said: 

"I  have  been  of  the  same  mind  for  some 


The  Golden  Poppy 


239 


time.  I  am  very  glad  to  knew  that  I  am 
not  alone." 

They  were  gone  but  a  few  moments 
when  David  came  in.  He  was  in  high 
spirits. 

He  had  met  St.  Julien  at  the  clinic.  The 
great  surgeon  had  greeted  him  warmly 
and  informed  himself  of  his  pupil's  pros- 
pects. He  expressed  himself  as  feeling 
assured  of  Randon's  ultimate  success. 
But,  he  had  told  him,  he  must  specialize. 
In  specialization  lay  the  secret  to  rapid 
success  and  recognition.  He  had  an  idea. 
In  fact,  he  had  been  thinking  of  David 
for  some  time.  A  wealthy  man,  by  the 
name  of  Rochette,  had  come  to  him  with 
his  little  boy,  who  was  afflicted  with  a  con- 
genital disease.  The  greatest  known  spe- 
cialist in  such  cases  was  in  Vienna.  St. 
Julien  had  advised  Rochette  to  take  the 
little  fellow  abroad  and  place  him  ir  the 
hands  of  the  Viennese  professor.  He  had 
no  doubt  that  a  cure  could  be  eflFected.  A 
medical  companion  would  be  required  to 
give  the  treatments  and  watch  over  the 


240 


The  Golden  Poppy 


general  health  of  the  child.  The  party 
would  be  abroad  in  the  neighborhood  of 
three  years.  He  would  receive  liberal 
compensation  for  his  services  and  further- 
more would  have  ample  time  to  attend  the 
clinics  in  Vienna — the  greatest  in  the 
world.  He  would  return  to  Montreal  a 
specialist.  He  could  then  become  St. 
Julien's  assistant;  for  the  latter's  practice 
was  fast  growing  beyond  him  A  mag- 
nificent opportunity.  Would  he  accept  it? 
Would  he  go? 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  lighted 
a  cigar. 

"And — "  urged  Isabelle,  in  breathless 
suspense. 

"Why,  I  accepted,  of  course.  I  met  the 
Rochettes.  They  are  fine  people.  The 
mother  is  going  too.  Our  party  sails  early 
in  May.  Just  think  of  it — I  shall  return 
to  Canada  a  great  man,  an  established 
specialist.  It's  simply  wonderful.  I  think 
I  shall  take  up  St.  Julien's  work:  ortho- 
paedia.     It  has  always  interested  me." 


The  Golden  Poppy 


241 


He  rose  and  poured  a  swallow  of 
brandy,  which  he  tossed  off. 

"I  will  require  a  wardrobe,"  he  went 
on.  "You  can't  turn  around  without 
money.  But,  it's  worth  it.  I'm  playing 
for  big  stakes — and,  I'm  winning!" 

He  slapped  his  thigh  and  laughed  nerv- 
ously, at  thought  ot  his  future  conquest. 
Turning  serious  again,  he  said: 

"Now,  you  might  as  well  stay  right 
here.  There  would  be  nothing  to  gain  by 
closing  the  house.  And,  besides,  we  want 
our  own  home.  It  will  look  bigger  to  keep 
the  place  open  during  my  absence.  It  will 
lend  an  air  of  substance  to  me.  You  can 
keep  Antoinette.  Well,  why  are  you 
silent?    What  do  you  say  about  it?" 

"I  have  been  listening  to  you,  David," 
replied  Isabelle,  striving  hard  to  control 
her  voice;  for  she  was  very  nigh  to  tears. 

"Oh,  surely.  But,  now  that  I  have  told 
you,  what  do  you  think  of  it?  Isn't  it 
wonderful  ?" 

"Yes,  David,  it  is.    It  is  wonderful." 

"Well,  but  would  you  go?" 


J4- 


Thc  GoJdcu  Poppy 


"You  have  accepted  St.  Julian's  offer, 
have  you  not?" 

"Why,  yes,  of  course." 

"Then,  you  rust  go,  David.  It  is  the 
opportunity  of  a  hfetime.  You  are  on 
your  way  to  recognition — to  greatness. 
It  would  be  folly  not  to  go.  As  to  keeping 
the  house  open,  I  shall  think  it  over.  It 
will,  of  course,  be  largely  a  matter  of  ad- 
justing myself  to  circumstances." 

"I  don't  quite  understand,"  he  said. 

"Neither  do  I,"  she  smiled.  "I  presume 
we  shall  both  understand  later  on — as 
conditions  develop.  If  I  see  that  it  is  the 
better  course  to  remain  here  and  keep 
Antoinette  I  shall  very  naturally  do  so. 
But,  just  at  this  moment,  neither  one  of 
us  can  say  w^hat  would  be  best.  You  leave 
in  May?" 

"Yes,  probably  the  first  week.  By  the 
way,  Tabor  has  bought  tickets  for  a  box 
party.  Would  you  like  to  go?  We  are 
to  meet  them  at  the  theatre." 

"No,  I  think  not.  I  am  very  much  taken 


The  Golden  Poppy 


-'43 


up  with  my  novel.     Vou  go,  David;  and 
1  will  stay  home  and  read." 

Before  leaving,  he  came  over  to  her 
and  kissed  her  on  the  lips : 

"Of  course,  you  will  l)e  lonesome  when 
I  am  gone."  he  said.  "Three  years,  you 
see.  is  a  long  time.  fUit,  then,  you  must 
think  of  the  goal.     Is  it  not  so?" 

■'Surelv.  the  goal.  David.  'Die  goal  is 
everything.     Nothing  else  matters." 

"Vou  are  very  brave."  he  laughed,  a 
trifle  puzzled. 

"I  never  knew  that  I  was.  But,  really, 
I  seem  to  be,  do  I  not?" 

"Yes,  very  brave,  indeed.  It  is  in  mo- 
ments of  great  stress  that  virtues  are 
born.  Vou  appear  to  have  all  the  ele- 
ments of  a  good  and  dutiful  wife.  I  feel 
quite  proud  of  you.  Isabelle." 

When  he  had  gone,  she  laid  aside  the 
book  which  she  had  taken  up. 

She  was  inexpressibly  shocked  by  the 
grossness  of  his  texture,  the  utter  small- 
ness  of  the  man  wlu)  was  her  mate.  She 
felt  no  bitterness  tov.ard  David.    For  she 


244 


The  Golden  Poppy 


knew  that  those  were  the  attrihtttes  of  his 
nature,  over  whose  making  he  had  had 
no  control. 

But,  oh,  the  cruel  heartache,  the  cold 
brutality  of  the  revelation!  Her  life- 
dream  lay  shattered  at  her  feet.  She 
knew  it  well.  She  could  never  be  happy 
in  the  comradeship  of  this  man. 

1:1  is  very  presence  was  a  stone  wall  to 
the  love  she  would  have  lavished  upon 
him. 

Dutiful!  The  most  detestable  of  all 
words  between  man  and  wife. 

And  she  was  a  "dutiful  wife!" 

Then,  that  was  his  conception  of  wed- 
ded life,  of  the  sacred,  golden  links  of 
love! 

Her  house  lay  tumbled  about  her.  The 
hot  blood  surged  madly  in  her  veins.  He 
did  not  love  her!  He  did  not  love  her! 
He  was  incapable  of  love.  Utterly  so. 
And  she  had  never  known.  She  had  given 
herself  to  a  man  who  could  not  love.  And 
she  would  live  with  him  all  the  years  until 
life  was  at  an  end,  knowing  that  there 


The  Golden  Poppy 


245 


was  no  love,  that  there  could  be  no  love 
in  his  heart  for  her.  She  would  be  but  a 
chattel,  bearing  the  seal  of  church  and 
law.  And  thousands  had  gone  before  her, 
thousands  were  living  now,  the  self-same 
way — dutiful  wives. 

Why  had  he  not  planned  to  take  her 
with  him  to  Vienna  ?  It  would  have  cost 
no  more  than  to  maintain  the  home  during 
his  absence.     Not  as  much. 

Instead  of  the  companionship  to  which 
she  was  entitled,  he  had,  without  consult- 
ing her  wishes,  coolly  decreed  unspeakable 
misery  for  her.  He  had  plainly  shown 
that  he  wished  to  go  without  her.  For, 
he  spoke  of  Rochette  taking  his  wife,  yet 
made  no  mention  of  her.  Her  head 
whirled  giddily. 

The  room  was  too  warm.  The  ticking 
of  the  clock  struck  like  hammer  blows. 
The  Venus  over  the  books  appeared  gro- 
tesquely white — would  she  never  find  her 
Her  eyes  wandered  back  to  the 
It  was  early  yet.    It  was  suflFocat- 


arms? 
clock. 


li 


246 


The  Golden  Poppy 


ing  here!  She  must  go  somewhere — do 
something. 

She  picked  up  tlie  evening  paper  and 
scanned  the  week's  attractions.  She  ran 
down  the  Hst  until  she  came  to  "The  Lady 
Who  Lived  in  the  Moon."  That  would 
do.     She  stepped  to  the  kitchen  door. 

"Antoinette."  she  said  gaily,  "you  must 
dress  ciuickly.  We  are  going  to  the  thea- 
tre— and    we    have   but   a    few    minutes' 

time!" 

She  called  a  cab  and  hurried  away  to 

dress. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SIX. 


It  was  a  memorable  winter  in  Lamar- 
tinette. 

Early  in  November  the  snows  began  to 
fall  over  the  frozen,  leaf-strewn  earth. 

Soon,  the  rolling  country  was  an  un- 
broken landscape  of  shimmering  white. 

The  habitants  went  about  their  daily 
tasks  in  the  barns  and  stables,  at  the 
wood-pile,  or  at  chores  about  the  house. 

On  fine  days  they  drove  to  the  village, 
where  they  held  forth  in  weighty  councils 
in  store  and  tavern. 

Clothed  in  the  thick  drap-de-pays,  their 
tuques  pulled  down  snugly  over  their  ears, 
they  had  no  fear  of  the  biting  cold,  of  the 
blasts  that  rode  in  from  the  north. 

None  the  less,  it  was  a  winter  such  as 
few  had  known. 

The  flames  leaped  blue  in  the  fireside 

[247] 


248 


The  (Golden  rof>tyy 


and  the  night  winds  howled  hke  many 
wolves.  The  sun  was  a  yellow  blur.  The 
snow  cracked  like  a  whip  under  the  foot. 
Day  by  day  the  cold  grew  more  intense. 
Day  by  day  the  silence  fell  more  solemn 
over  the  wide  exi)ansc.  The  jour  de  I'An 
was  a  bitter  day. 

New  Year's  Day  among  the  habitants 
sounds  the  beginning  of  a  week's  carouse 
such  as  is  known  nowhere  else  beneath 
God's  canopy.  Town  and  campagne  turn 
into  one  great  abode  of  fetes  and  merri- 
ment. "Bonne  Annee"  flits  joyfully  from 
mouth  to  mouth,  as  good  wishes  for  the 
New  Year  arc  sped  upon  their  way.  It 
is  a  great  event. 

The  grudge  is  forgotten.  The  glasses 
clink.  Song  shouts  boldly  to  the  stinging 
wind.  The  dance  holds  sway.  It  is  the 
feast  of  the  habitants.  All  else  matters 
not. 


The  night  of  the  Jour  de  I'An  fourd 


^hc  Golden  Poppy 


249 


It) 


tlie 


t.ivcrn    of    the 


Philippe    l.al)ellc 
widow  Duclos. 

As  the  iiour  grew  late  PhiUppe  grew 
drunk. 

And  whtri  he  made  a  brave  attempt  to 
sing  "Le  I-'etit  Cure  de  St.  Denis"  as  a 
parting  contribution  to  the  soiree,  he 
crumpled  up  limply  on  the  floor. 

The  widow  was  for  putting  him  to  bed. 
But,  he  would  not  have  it  so,  although  he 
had  slept  h(re  many  times. 

So,  they  bundled  him  warmly  in  his 
sleigh  and  threw  the  reins  about  him. 

Charlema^rne  pricked  up  his  ears  and 
started  off.  Charlemagne  was  safe.  A 
child  could  drive  him.  And,  he  knew  the 
way. 

A  half  hour  later,  Nazaire  heard  the  rig 
turning  over  the  culvert  and  stepped  to 
the  door  of  the  barn,  lantern  in  hand.  He 
was  here  to  Jiwait  Philippe's  coming;  for 
he  felt  quite  sure  that  his  brother  would 
be  too  drunk  to  care  for  the  horse.  And 
it  was  far  too  cold  a  night  for  the  doors 
to  be  left  open. 


250 


The  GoUh'H  I'oppy 


He  raised  the  lantern  above  his  head 
and  waited.  A  mellow  stream  of  li.c:ht  fell 
across  the  yard.  C"harlcmap:nc  came  on  to 
the  barns  without  halting  at  the  house. 

Seeing  Nazaire.  he  stopped  short. 
There  was  no  one  in  the  seat. 

Nazairo  looked  into  the  sleigh  and 
lifted  the  robes. 

"Bon  Dieu!"  he  exclaimed.  "I  don't  see 
Philippe!" 

He  walked  around  the  rig,  making  an 
inspection  of  horse  and  sleigh. 

A  shaft  was  broken.  He  could  not 
drive  back  to  look  for  his  brother.  He 
would  go  a- foot. 

He  put  up  Charlemagne  and  started  off 
in  quest  of  Philippe. 

No  more  than  a  half-mile  from  the 
house  he  came  upon  him,  at  a  point  where 
the  road  turned  in  a  short  curve. 

Philippe  was  lying  back  limply  in  the 
lap  of  a  snow  bank,  apparently  none  the 
worse  for  his  fall:  but  sound  asleep. 

Nazaire  held  the  lantern  to  the  face  of 
the  drunken  man. 


■/';'•  L,  old  en  I'oppy 


251 


Rendint!^  over,  he  seized  him  by  the  arm. 
Come,"  he  saiJ  pruffly,  "I  am  here  to 
take  y  u  home." 

Pliil.ppe  prnntcd  contentedly  and  drew 
free  hi-  arm,  which  lell  back  hmply  on 
the  snow. 

He  did  not  open  his  eyes. 

He  was  very  drunk,  mused  Nazaire. 

He  would  not  l)e  able  to  walk. 

And  he  was  too  heavy  to  carry. 

The  shaft  was  broken,  else  it  would 
have  been  simple  to  load  him  into  the 
sleiph  and  tuml)le  him  off  at  the  house. 

Parbleu!     It  was  a  nasty  bit  of  work. 

How  to  ^o  about  it  was  beyond  him. 

At.  there  was  the  box-sleigh!  Why 
had  he  not  thought  of  that  before?  No 
wonder  Philomene  said  he  was  thick  and 
dull. 

Philomene — the  name  opened  a  train 
of  thought  in  the  sluggish  brain. 

What  was  it  she  had  said  to  him,  that 
day.  standing  by  the  stove,  soup  bowl  in 
hand  ? 

"Suppose  he  did  fall — accidentally." 


252 


The  Golden  Poppy 


That  was  it. 

That  was  what  Philomene  had  said  to 
him. 

Sacre ! 

And  there  lay  PhiHppe  before  him,  like 
a  beast  in  the  mire,  where  he  had  fallen — 
accidentally. 

Tonnerre!     It  was  no  aflfair  of  his. 

He  had  done  nothing  to  bring  about 
this  state  of  things. 

No  human  being  cc  ■  Id  live  in  such  a 
night  as  this. 

With  Philippe  out  of  the  way,  there 
would  be  something  more  in  life  than 
soup,  salt  pork  and  potatoes. 

He  would  manage  the  farm  for  his 
brother's  wife. 

He  would  be  consulted  in  matters  of 
import  mce. 

They  could  live,  he  and  Philomene,  as 
they  wished  to  live,  as  they  had  a  right 
to  live. 

His  sister-in-law  v    aid  need  him. 

She  would  pay  handsomely  for  hir. 
services. 


The  Golden  Poppy 


253 


Me  straif^htened  in  his  tracks. 

A  vision  of  ease  and  comfort  flitted  be- 
fore him. 

Philippe  slent  peacefully  at  his  feet,  un- 
conscious of  the  cold  that  was  slowly 
numbing  his  limbs. 

Soon,  it  would  creep  up  stealthily, 
soothingly,  to  his  heart  and  he  would 
enter  the  long  sleep  and  awake  no  more. 

Nazaire  gazed  down  upon  the  sprawl- 
ing form. 

What  did  he  owe  this  man,  this  brother 
in  the  flesh  ? 

What  had  Philippe  been  to  him,  but  a 
hard  and  unjust  master? 

Whose  fault  was  it,  but  his  own,  that 
he  was  now  lying  there,  a  drunken  pig, 
by  the  roadside. 

For  years  he  had  suffered  injustice  at 
his  hands. 

If  it  was  the  will  of  the  Bon  Dieu  for 
this  good-for-nothing  to  die  in  the  ditch, 
then  let  him  die  in  the  ditch ! 

He.  Nazaire,  would  not  interfere. 


254 


The  Golden  Poppy 


No  doubt,  it  was  a  judgment  from 
Heaven. 

Soit— so  be  it ! 

He  extinguish,  d  the  flame  in  the  lan- 
tern and  started  off  down  the  white  high- 
way that  led  to  his  home. 

Once,  as  he  went,  he  thought  he  heard 
the  voice  of  Philippe,  calling  him. 

He  halted  and  looked  back,  listening. 

A  great  stillness  lay  over  the  moon- 
bathed  snows. 

He  hurried  on.  conscious  of  a  rising 
sense  of  guilt. 

A  twig  snapped  in  a  tree,  above  his 

head. 

He  broke  into  a  run,  his  brain  m  a  panic 

of  fear. 

He  dashed  madly  from  tree  to  tree, 
along  the  road,  until  the  outline  of  his  cot- 
tage rose  in  the  moonlight  before  his 
frighted  eyes. 

Home,  he  bolted  the  door  securely,  re- 
moved his  boots  and  stole  away  to  bed. 

Philomene  was  asleep.     He  was  careful 


The  Golden  Poppy 


255 


not  to  wake  her.  She  must  not  know. 
Xone  should  ever  know. 

It  was  his  secret.  His  and  tiie  Bon 
Dieu's. 

It  was  a  bitter  night. 

No  habitants  drove  over  the  long  white 
road. 

Once,  Philippe  Labelle  opened  wide  his 
eyes  to  stare  in  silent  wonder  at  the  pale 
disc  of  moon  above  him. 

He  did  not  close  his  eyes  again. 

And  through  the  crystal  night  he  kept 
his  silent  vigil,  wide-eyed,  wondering, 
waiting,  as  though  he  might  have  had  a 
loving  tryst  and  was  faithful  at  the  ren- 
dezvous. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SEVEN. 


The  plans  of  Nazaire  worked  out  to  a 
nicety. 

The  day  after  the  funeral  Mamnian 
Labelle  held  a  conference  with  her  broth- 
er-in-law and  his  wife  on  the  future  con- 
duct of  affairs  on  the  farm. 

It  was  arranged  that  they  would  move 
into  the  homestead. 

Philomene  would  do  no  more  sewing 
for  the  women  of  Lamartinette.  She 
might  assist  Ernestine  in  the  work  about 
the  house  sufficiently  to  offset  the  increase 
in  the  girl's  labours ;  no  more. 

Philomene  and  Nazaire  would  have  the 
room  made  vacant  by  the  death  of  Phi- 
lippe. A  liberal  stipend  and  an  annual 
bonus  were  agreed  upon.  It  was  all  very 
simple.  Nazaire  was  amazed  at  his  good 
fortune.    He  would  be  the  manager.    His 

[256] 


The  Ciolden   Poppy 


257 


word  would  be  law  wherever  his  duties 
took  him.  And  Pliiloniene,  a  lady  in  her 
own  home,  as  one  might  say. 

Parbleu!  This  was  a  turn  in  the  road, 
to  be  sure. 

He  swelled  with  pride  at  the  thought 
of  his  achievement. 

As  a  token  of  benevolence,  he  told  Bis- 
xmetic  that  he  might  move  into  "the 
cottage  yonder,"  and  that  it  would  cost 
him  nothing  in  rent. 

"And  cast  about  for  another  hand,"  he 
said.  "Some  strong,  willing  lad,  looking 
for  a  good  home." 

"What  is  that  you  say?"  asked  Philo- 
mene,  who  had  come  up,  unheard,  behind 
the  two  men. 

"I  say  to  you,  good  woman,"  thundered 
Nazaire,  "to  go  into  the  house  and  look 
after  your  own  affairs!" 

So  saying,  he  walked  off  towards  the 
barns,  leaving  her  wilted  in  her  tracks. 

In  the  course  of  a  few  days,  a  young 
man  appeared  and  was  engaged  to  work 
about  the  farm. 


^58 


The  Golden  Poppy 


"And  your  name,  my  good  fellow?" 
queried  Nazaire,  when  the  youth  had 
been  hired. 

"Theophile     Dumoulin — from     Sainte 

Anne." 

"Ah,  oui,  from  Sainte  Anne.  Eh,  bien, 
this  is  Rissonette.  Ndu  will  work  with 
him.  And  I  am  Monsieur  Labelle — un- 
derstand?" 

"Oui,  Monsieur  Labelle." 

"Tres  bien.     Very  well." 

"Monsieur  Labelle!"  laughed  Bisson- 
ette  when  he  found  himself  alone.  Sucre. 
but  some  people  were  lacking  good  sense ! 

Isabelle  was  deeply  shocked  by  the  news 
of  her  father's  tragic  death. 

She  left  at  once  for  Lamartinette. 
David  did  not  arrive  until  the  morning  of 
the  funeral.  He  returned  to  Montreal  in 
the  evening. 

"Stay  a  few  days  with  your  mother," 
he  said  to  his  wife.  "No  doubt,  she  needs 
you,  now.  And,  besides,  she  will  wish  to 
consult  with  you  on  the  settlement  of  the 
estate.    Did  your  father  leave  a  will?" 


The  Golden  Poppy 


259 


"I  cannot  say,  David.  I  have  never 
heard  of  one.  FJoret,  the  notary,  would 
know;  or.  Mamman,  perhaps." 

"I  see.  Well,  you  can  make  enquiries 
and  advise  me  by  letter.  You  understand, 
of  cour.>e,  that  it  is  an  all-important  mat- 
ter to  us — this  (question  of  funds.  For,  I 
cannot  get  started  off  to  Europe  without 
considerable  outlay,  not  to  speak  of  the 
expense  in  the  home." 

Isabelle  made  no  reply. 

"That  is  clear  to  you,  is  it  not?"  he 
urged,  after  a  silence. 

"Oh,  yes.  David,"  she  replied,  "it  is 
quite  clear  to  me.  But,  I  am  determined 
to  make  no  more  advances  to  my  mother 
for  money.  If  she  takes  the  initiative, 
well  and  good.  But,  I  shall  humble  my- 
self no  more  to  any  one  of  my  people.  I 
have  gone  to  them  for  the  last  time." 

"Then,  what  shall  we  do?"  he  snapped. 

"Work  out  our  own  salvation,  as  thou- 
sands of  others  have  done." 

His  face  went  white.  His  lip  curled 
in  a  sneer  as  he  said : 


26o 


The  Golden  Poppy 


"Perhaps  you  would  like  to  see  nic  in 
a  buckboard,  bumping  over  the  country 
roads,  doling  out  pills  to  the  habitants." 
She  smiled  wistfully  as  she  rejoined: 
"That  might  not  be  so  bad,  David,  if 
only  we  lived  within  our  means  and  stood 
on  our  own  feet.  However  it  may  be," 
she  concluded  resolutely,  "I  shall  make  no 
more  overtures  to  my  people." 

"But,  it  is  your  money,  now.     The  law 
gives  it  to  you." 

"Then,  my  dear,  is  that  not  all  the  more 
reason  why  we  should  not  show  undue 
haste — eagerness  to  grasp  our  share? 
Don't  you  suppose  Mamman  has  all  the 
trouble  she  can  bear,  without  annoying 
her  about  money  at  this  time?" 

There  was  more  in  her  mind  than  she 
betrayed. 

She  was  determined  that  not  a  foot  of 
ground  would  be  sacrificed  for  her. 

The  home  would  remain  intact  as  long 
as  her  mother  lived. 

And  Pierre  would  be  repaid  his  five 


The  Golden  Poppy 


261 


thousand  before  siie  would  accept  a  dollar 
from  the  estate. 

She  would  have  told  David  as  much 
frankly.  But,  in  the  face  of  his  anger  she 
concluded  to  say  no  more. 

"Have  your  way  about  it,  then,"  he 
growled,  turning  to  his  bag. 

He  left  in  a  huflf.  Isabelle  went  out 
into  the  yard  to  see  him  off. 

But,  he  was  already  gone. 

Chagrined  and  sore  at  heart,  she  re- 
entered the  house  and  mounted  the  stairs 
to  her  mother's  room. 

Mother  and  child  sat  before  the  leaping 
fire  and  talked  of  the  one  who  had  died. 

They  spoke  only  of  his  good  traits, 
leaving  his  fau'ts  in  the  shadow  of  merci- 
ful silence.  It  was  late  when  Isabelle 
kissed  Mamman  and  went  to  her  room. 
Somehow,  a  load  had  been  lifted.  She 
was  conscious  of  a  greater  freedom.  Her 
mind  was  at  rest.  She  had  settled  an  ac- 
count with  her  conscience.  David  would 
see  that   she    was   right.      He   had   not 


a6a 


The  Golden  Poppy 


stopped  to  think — to  realize  her  position, 
f'.iit.  he  would  sec     and  understand. 

And,  yet,  he  niij^ht  persist  in  his  de- 
mands. In  which  event,  she  would  refuse 
again.  It  wa-  {)lainly  her  duty  to  do  so. 
If  it  h..(l  not  been  for  Tabor — ther'>  wis 
something  wrong  about  that  man.  She 
did  nor  like  hiin.  lie  was  coiling  and 
slim\ .  like  a  snake.  lie  purred  more  than 
spoke.     And  his  wife-  -a  fat  little  cat! 

There  was  a  tap  a?  her  door.  It  was 
Mamman. 

"I  am  feeling  nervous,  my  dear.  I 
shall  sleep  with  you  tonigh.." 

Isabelle  was  glad.  For  it  wa  ;  very  still 
in  the  great  house;    mc    she  was  lonely. 

She  clasped  her  mother    n  her  arms. 

How  often  had  Mamman  iield  her  thus, 
as  a  babe!  Mamman  had  always  been 
so  good!    She  was  soon  asleep. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-EIGHT. 


The  notary  Dorct  knew  of  no  will ;  nor 
did  Maninian  Labelle.  Philippe  must 
have  died  intestate. 

It  would  be  six  months  before  the  af- 
fairs of  the  e";'  ate  could  be  settled.  Mrs. 
Labelle  remained  in  charge  of  the  prop- 
erty by  sanction  of  the  court.  The  pro- 
cedure was  of  a  purely  formal  nature. 

There  were  stocks  and  bonds  to  the 
value  of  twenty  thousand  dollars  and  a 
bank  bn  lance  of  something  like  seven 
thousand.  As  there  were  no  incum- 
brances on  the  farm,  the  outlook  was  one 
of  comfort  for  the  declining  years  of  the 
widow. 

li  was  with  a  feeling  of  keen  disappoint- 
ment that  David  learned  the  facts  from 
his  wife  upon  her  return  to  Montreal ;  for 
she  had  avoided  the  subject  in  her  letters 

[263] 


264 


The  Golden   Poppy 


to  him  durinp:  the  remainder  of  her  stay 
at  the  homestead. 

•'But,  did  your  mother,"  he  said,  "fail 
to  make  any  mention  wliatever  of  us — of 
our  share  in  the  estate?" 

"No,  not  aUo^'etlier,  dear."  rephed  Isa- 
belle.  "She  said  tliat.  as  soon  as  her 
hands  were  freed,  she  would  repay  Pierre 
the  five  thousand  he  had  loaned  her  for 
us.  That,  of  course,  will  come  out  of  my 
share.  Then,  there  is  the  other  twenty- 
eight  hundred,  which  will  also  be  charged 
against  me  " 

"Well,  what  then?" 

"Nothing  more,  David.  I  presume 
there  is  nothing  to  be  expected  before  the 
estate  is  settled." 

They  were  sitting  in  the  library.  She 
rose  and  crossed  over  to  the  piano.  He 
stepped  in  front  of  her,  his  face  livid. 

"I  wish  to  speak  to  you."  he  snapped. 
"You  shan't  dismiss  a  subject  in  this 
fashion  when  I  am  talking  to  you." 

"Really,"  she  rejoined,  with  admirable 


'Ihr  a  olden   I'oppy 


265 


composure.   "I    ♦hought   the  subject  was 
ended." 

Slie  seated  herself  beside  the  reading 
table  and  waited  for  him  to  speak.  Her 
slippered  foot  tapped  the  rug  nervously. 
Othcrvvi.se.     she     remained,     outwardly, 

calm. 

He  came  over  and  stood  before  her. 
his  hands  in  his  pockets. 

"Is  there  to  be  no  advance,  pending  the 
settlement?" 

"Not  if  I  am  to  seek  it,  David." 
"You  are  ([uitc  decided  on  that  point?" 
"Yes — entirely  so.  \o\x  see,  my  dear, 
mother  has  no  idea  that  we  could  have 
gone  through  the  twenty-eight  hundred 
already.  And  she  could  hardly  be  ex- 
pected to  knovv'  about  your  speculations. 
So,  naturally  she  thinks  we  a;  ,  still  pro- 
vided with  at  least  a  sufficient  supply  of 
funds  to  cairy  us  through  the  winter. 
And  I  could  not  possibly  bring  myseif  to 
tell  her  the  truth." 

"Then,  you  don't  care  whether  I  go  to 
Europe  or  not?" 


266 


The  Golden  Poppy 


"On  the  contrary,"  she  smiled,  "  I  shall 
be  very  sorry  to  see  you  go.  It  will  be  so 
lonely.  But,  you  will  be  happy  and— be- 
come great.  Is  it  not  so?  Therefore,  I 
shall  not  complain." 

"But,  how  am  I  to  go  without  funds? 
There  is  my  wardrobe — a  hundred  differ- 
ent things  to  buy.  And  I  must  live  in  a 
manner  befitting  my  station.  Rochette 
will  not  offer  me  an  advance.  He  might 
fear  to  oflfciid  me." 

"My  dear,  you  have  until  May.  Who 
knows  what  may  come  to  pass  between 
now  and  then?  Let  us  not  borrow 
trouble.  Perhaps  Mamman  will  speak 
about  it  when  she  comes  to  visit  us  next 
month.  Are  you  going  out?  I  will 
change  my  dress  and  go  with  you.  There 
is  a  new  book  I  promised  to  send  Mam- 
man." 

"I  can't  wait,"  he  replied.  "I  have  an 
appointment." 

A  moment  later,  the  door  opened  and 
closed  behind  him. 

She  stood  where  she  had  risen  from  the 


i 


The  Golden  Poppy 


267 


chair,  amazed  at  the  suddenness  of  his 
decision,  stung  to  the  quick  by  the  cold 
brutality  of  his  treatment. 

She  was  beset  again,  in  this  dark  hour, 
by  the  .bought  that  love  would  never  live 
within  his  heart ;  that  he  was  of  the  shal- 
low clay  that  loves  itself  alone. 

She  drew  a  long,  deep  sigh,  her  eyes 
far  away  in  thought. 

Life,  love,  happiness— what  was  it  all 
about?    Who  might  say? 

A  fleeting  firefly  in  the  night?  The 
mirage  of  a  fevered  brain  ? 

Ah,    she    hoped    not;    yearningly    she 

hoped  not. 

Somewhere  love  lingered,  alluring,  red- 
garlanded.  She  knew  it  by  the  throbbing 
of  her  heart,  by  the  hunger  of  her  soul, 
by  the  mad  surging  of  the  tide  in  her 

veins. 

She  dressed  and  went  out. 


(  4'PTER  TWENTY-NINE. 

It  was  soon  noted  in  Lainartinette  that 
Nazaire  had  undergone  a  great  change 
since  the  taking  off  of  his  brother  Phi- 
Hppe. 

He  developed  haughty  mannerisms  of 
speech  and  bearing,  which  evoked  humor- 
ous comment  among  the  habitants. 

They  came  to  speak  of  him  as  "Mon- 
sieur Nazaire  Labelle." 

The  wits  and  wags  of  the  village  strove 
to  outrival  one  another  in  their  sallies 
about  him. 

He  would  clear  his  throat  before  speak- 
ing and  utter  his  words  in  a  slow,  senten- 
tious way. 

His  lumbering  stride  of  yore  gave  way 
to  a  stiff,  labored  strut. 

On  Sundays,  he  carried  a  cane  to 
church. 


[268] 


The  Golden  Poppy 


269 


It  was  a  great  day  in  their  life  when 
he  and  Philomene  stalked  up  the  main 
aisle  of  the  edifice,  arm  in  arm,  to  the  pew 
of  the  Labelles,  dressed  in  the  garb  of 
their  new  station. 

Philomene  wore  a  dress  of  black  silk — 
lier  dream  of  years.  It  was  an  elaborate 
affair,  with  many  flounces. 

Nazaire  looked  very  solemn  in  a  black 
Prince  Albert,  a  scarlet  geranium  in  his 
houtonniere.  His  new  shoes  squeaked  de- 
rision. His  fat,  soulless  face  was  a  deep 
red.  He  was  thankful  when  the  organ 
pealed  the  Kyrie,  submerging  him  in 
waves  of  iiiellow  sound. 

Mamman  Labelle  had  found  a  pretext 
to  remain  at  home.  She  was  not  feeling 
well.  She  would  see  to  the  dinner.  In 
truth,  she  felt  deep  compassion  for  these 
two.  For,  Mamman  was  very  human; 
and  she  had  a  noble  heart. 

Nazaire  and  Philomene  excited  her  pity 
now  as  they  had  never  done  in  the  days 
of  their  poverty.  She  resented  the  spirit 
of  ridicule  that  bubbled  about  them,  wher- 


270 


The  Golden  Poppy 


ever  thev  went.  Her  soul  rebelled  against 
the  malice  of  the  littl  minds  who  had 
found  in  thi.  pair  a  worthy  object  of  at- 
tack. But,  she  was  powerless,  as  well  she 
kn  V.  For,  any  advice  which  she  might 
offer  th  jm  would  urely  be  misconstrued 
by  Nazaire  and  his  wife.  So,  she  re- 
mained discreetly  :.ilent,  permitting  the 
future  to  shape  its  own  course. 

One  day,  when  Nazaire  was  in  Lamar- 
tinette,  he  met  the  Cure  St.  Georges  in 
front  of  the  parish-house.  The  priest  was 
in  very  good  spirits. 

"I  have  been  waiting  to  have  a  chat 
with  you,  Nazaire,"  he  said.  "Come  into 
the  house.    It  is  too  cold  to  stand  outside." 

"Oui,  Monsieur  le  Cure,"  blurted  Na- 
zaire, his  brain  in  a  whirl  of  panic.  What 
did  he  want?  Did  the  Cure  know?  Holy 
Virgin!    What  was  it  abort? 

They  went  into  the  house  together,  the 
priest  leading  the  way. 

Once,  Nazaire  was  tempted  to  turn  and 
flee. 

But,  what  would  that  avail  him? 


The  Golden  I'oppy 


271 


Xothing^.  if  the  Cure  knew. 

So.  he  followed  in. 

"You  arp  shaking,"  said  St.  Georges, 
when  the  door  of  the  study  had  closed 
behind  them.    "Are  you  ill?" 

"I  am  cold,"  replied  Nazaire,  turning 
to  the  fire,  to  avoid  the  enquiring  gaze  of 
the  priest. 

"I  shall  fetch  you  a  glass  of  wine," 
spoke  St.  Georges. 

He  left  the  room  and  returned  a  mo- 
ment later  with  a  glass  and  decanter. 

"Drink,  Nazaire,"  said  the  priest. 
"Why,  you  tremble  like  a  leaf!  What  ails 
you?" 

Nazaire  had  gulped  a  glassful  of  the 
wine  and  crumpled  into  an  arm-chair  be- 
fore the  fireplace.  He  was  sweating  pro- 
fusely. 

The  priest  drew  a  chair  on  the  other 
side  of  the  hearth,  facing  Nazaire. 

"You  are  perspiring.  It  will  do  you 
good.  Only,  y  »u  must  not  be  in  a  hurry 
to  go  out.    It  might  mean  your  death." 

Nazaire  started  up.    He  half  shrieked : 


272 


rite  Golden  Poppy 


"Mon  Dieu!  What  will  you  have 
of  me?  Why  have  you  brought  tne  here? 
Say  it!  I  can't  stand  this  sort  of  thing 
much  longer.  I  warn  you.  What  is  it, 
I  ask  you?" 

"Nothing  to  make  you  carry  on  in  this 
fashion,  I  assure  you,  Nazaire.  I  merely 
wished  to  know  how  you  have  been  get- 
ting on — of  late;  and  if  you  are  finding 
yourself  better  pleased  with  life." 

Nazaire  gazed  into  the  face  of  the 
priest,  a  dull  fire  of  suspicion  in  his  eyes. 
Slowly  the  bulky  forn.  relaxed  in  the  arm- 
chair. He  mopped  his  face  and  neck 
thoughtfully  for  a  space. 

"Yes,  Monsieur  It  Cure,"  he  said  pres- 
ently. "The  Bon  Dieu  seems  very  good 
to  me—after  all  these  years.  I  had  a  very 
wicked  brother,  Monsieur  le  Cure.  He 
was  a  bad  man." 

"Your  brother  is  dead.  Nazaire.  Jwdge 
not.  Leave  judgment  to  Him  who  reads 
our  inmost  thoughts,  who  sees  our  slight- 
est acts  and  who  holds  in  His  hands  the 


The  Golden  Pofyf>y 


273 


scales  from  which  no  man  may  ever  hope 
to  escape." 

"He  sees  all.  you  say?  He  knows  our 
thoughts?  He — reads — what  is  in  our — 
hearts?" 

"Ves,  my  son." 

"My  God!"  exclaimed  Xazaire,  utterly 
hroken,  "that  is  terrible!" 

He  sprang-  to  his  feet: 

"Some  day  I  will  come  back.  But  now. 
I  must  go.  I  am  choking  for  want  of  air. 
Rut.  I  will  be  Ivick.  T  will  be  back.  Mon- 
sier  le  Cure — some  day.  There  is  some- 
thing I  wish  to  tell  you.    But — not  now!" 

lie  flung  himself  out  of  the  house  a.id 
hurried  off  down  the  village  street,  as 
though  in  deadly  fear  of  pursuit. 

From  a  window  of  his  sttidy.  St. 
Georges  gazed  after  the  fleeing  form  in 
amazement. 

"Who  would  have  thought,"  the  good 
man  mused  aloud,  "<hat  a  little  wine 
would  have  thus  upset  him !" 

After  a  while,  he  lighted  his  pipe  and 
sat  down  to  read. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY. 


Some  time  elapsed.  Nazaire  did  not  go 
back  to  the  parish-house.  On  a  number 
of  occasions  he  resolved  to  make  a  clean 
breast  of  his  connectioii  with  the  death  of 
Philippe  to  the  priest.  But,  each  time  he 
had  weakened  as  he  neared  the  Cure's 
abode;  and  quickly  found  business  else- 
where. 

Sullen  and  taciturn  by  nature,  he  now 
grew  profoundly  morose.  He  fell  into 
long  spells  of  despondency,  shunning  all 
who  v-ould  have  converse  with  him  and 
holding  to  himself  in  the  barns  and 
stables. 

His  customary  journeys  to  the  village 
were  abandoned. 

He  lost  weight ;  and  the  apoplectic  flush 
of  his  face  paled  to  a  pasty,  putty-like  cast. 

He  partook  of  little  food,  going  through 

[274) 


The  Golden  Poppy 


-75 


the  motions  of  eating  like  a  thing  pulled 
by  wires. 

The  Prince  Albert  hung,  forgotten,  on 
its  peg  in  the  closet.  He  went  back  to 
his  former  method  of  dress,  much  against 
the  protestations  of  Philomene,  who  was 
at  a  loss  to  understand  his  strange  behav- 
ior. He  made  frequent  pilgrimages  to 
the  spot  by  the  roadside  where  he  had 
come  upon  Philippe  and  left  him  to  die. 

Here  he  would  stand  a  long  while,  star- 
ing fixedly  at  the  ground. 

Then,  slowly,  brokenly,  he  would  trudge 
off  again  towards  the  home. 

The  habitants  would  say: 

"He  grieves  for  his  brother  Philippe!" 

One  night,  he  did  not  come  in  to  sup- 
per with  the  others. 

Ernestine  put  his  meal  in  the  oven  to 
keep  warm  against  his  return. 

Late  in  the  night  Pliilomene  awoke  in 
her  bed  to  find  that  Nazaire  was  not  lying 
beside  her.     He  had  not  returned. 

She  rose  and  dressed  hastily. 


^7(^ 


7  lie  Golden  I'oppy 


His  supiKT  was  still  in  the  oven,  where 
l'!i.  "stiiie  had  placed  it. 

There  was  soniethinj:^  wt'  'ij;;  else  he 
would  he  home.  She  lighted  the  lantern 
and  went  out.  It  was  hiting  cold.  She 
drew  her  cape  snugly  ahout  her  and 
started  across  the  yard  towards  the  barn. 

A  silver  crescent  of  moon  looked  down 
peacefully  upon  the  white-mantled  earth. 
Many  stars  were  in  the  sky.  She  hurried 
her  steps,  stung  by  a  sense  of  fear  and 
foreboding. 

'I'he  stables  threw  out  a  grateful 
warmth  as  she  pulled  open  the  thick, 
heavy  door.  The  grinding  of  the  horses' 
teeth  and  the  swish  of  the  hay  in  the  man- 
gers were  welcome  sounds  to  her  ears. 

Holding  the  lantern  above  her  head, 
she  peered  into  the  dimly  lighted  stalls. 
Convinced  that  he  was  not  here,  she  went 
on. 

He  was  not  in  the  sheep-pens;  nor  in 
the  barns,  where  the  hay  and  the  j^-rain 
were  stored. 


The  Golden  Poppy 


277 


I 


Abandoning  hope  of  finding  Nazaire, 
she  turned  to  retrace  her  steps  towards 
the  house. 

As  she  went,  a  sudden  thought  struck 
her:  The  carriage-house!  She  had  not 
tried  it. 

A  moment  later,  she  stood  at  the  door, 
her  hand  in  the  slot  that  served  in  lieu  of 
handle. 

Here  she  paused,  a  sudden,  unaccount- 
able fear  gripping  her  senses. 

The  door  was  ajar.  She  pushed  against 
it  timidly. 

It  swung  in  and  struck  against  a 
strange  object,  that  was  heavy  and  soft. 
She  could  not  see  what  it  was. 

Her  head  whirled  in  panic. 

After  a  while,  and  with  great  effort, 
she  called  out: 

"Nazaire,  where  are  you?" 

The  echo  of  her  voice  chilled  her  to  the 
marrow. 

A  window  opened  in  the  upper  part  of 
the  house. 


>  1 
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MICROCOPY    RESOLUTION    TEST    CHART 

ANSI  and  ISO  TEST  CHART  Mo    2 


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If  m 

•^       14.0 


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1.6 


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'^-53    Ecst    Mair    Street 
Rochester.    Ne*    york 
(716)   482  -  O3O0  -  Ph 
f7161    288  -  5989  -  Fo. 


tjS^r-- 


278 


77; r  Golden  Poppy 


In  fbe  square  of  yellow  lip^t.  she  dis- 
cerned the  form  of  Madame  Lahelle. 

"What  is  it.  Philoniene?  What  is  the 
matter?"  asked  Maniman. 

Philoniene  shrilled  back : 

"Come  (|uickly,  I  beg  of  you!  Awaken 
the  men!  I  fear  something  has  hap- 
pened!" 

"Oh,  mon  Dieu,  mon  Dieu!"  she 
wailed  aloud 

When  tlie  men  reached  the  scene, 
slightly  in  advance  of  Madame  Labelle 
and  Ernestine,  Philoniene  pointed  to  the 
door,  her  face  chalk-white  in  the  lantern 
light. 

"In  there,"  she  said.  "Something  tells 
me.     I  can  feel  it." 

Dumoulin  pushed  back  the  door. 

Then,  he  gasped  and  stepped  back  a 
pace. 

Bissonettc  caught  Philoniene  in  his 
strong  arms  as  she  reeled  in  the  snow. 

Mamman  and  Ernestine  clung  to  each 
other  in  frozen  horror. 


The  Golden  Poppy 


279 


At  last,  someone  spoke. 
Tt  was  the  voice  of  Rissonette. 
"Come !"  he  said  hoarsely  to  the  women. 
And  he  hurried  them  away  from  the 
thing  that  was  hanging  before  them. 


CHAPTICR  THIRTY-ONE. 


One  sunny  dny  in  April  Madame  La- 
lielle  drove  to  ilie  villaj^fe  station  with 
}'>iss(inctle  and  hoarded  the  train  for 
Montreal. 

She  arrived  at  the  Bonaventnre  Station 
about  noon  and  rode  to  the  Randon  home 
with  Isabelle,  who  was  overjoyed  to  have 
her  "Mumzie"  with  her. 

Mamman  was  to  remain  with  the  Ran- 
dons  until  David's  departure,  which  would 
be  early  in  May.  No  further  plans  had 
been  made  by  the  two  women. 

The  young'  doctor  greeted  his  mother- 
in-law  pleasantly,  enjoining  her  to  con- 
sider herself  in  her  own  home  while  here 
with  them. 

After  luncheon,  during  which  he  was 
unusually  vivacious,  he  took  himself  off, 
explaining,   in  a  casual  way.  that  there 

[280] 


The  Goldoi  Poppy 


281 


were  numerous  matters  ■  c  ]uiring  his  at- 
tention before  the  date  of  his  sailing. 

He  puckered  his  brow  in  studious  mood, 
tracing  a  circle  with  his  stick  on  the  rug 
at  his  feet.     .A  luonient  later  he  was  gone. 

"David  will,  no  doubt,  require  funds 
for  his  undertaking,  my  dear,"  suggested 
Mamman,  when  they  were  alone.  "I 
could  advance  him  five  thousand  dollars 
of  your  share  in  the  estate.  Vou  might 
speak  to  him  about  it.  He  may  be  in  im- 
mediate need  of  money." 

"I  know  that  he  is,  Mamman.  He  men- 
tioned the  matter  some  time  ago.  But,  I 
am  thinking  of  you.  Would  it  leave  you 
— secure?" 

"Oh,  yes;  there  is  some  cash  on  hand. 
And  Pierre  has  refused  to  accept  the  re- 
turn of  his  loan  at  this  time.  I  shall  write 
a  ciieck  during  the  day,  which  you  may 
place  on  deposit  in  your  bank,  or  endorse 
over  to  David." 

"I  thank  you,  Mamman,"  rejoined  Isa- 
belle,  visibly  confused. 

She  lowered  her  eyes  to  the  empty  plate 


282 


The  Golden  I'oppy 


before  her,  a  deep  flush  suffusing  her 
cheeks.  She  was  proud-spirited.  These 
repeated  acceptances  of  loans  and  gratui- 
ties galled  her,  stung  her  to  the  point  of 
rebellion.  She  felt  a  grateful  relief  when 
Antoinette  entered  the  room  to  clear  the 
table. 

"It  will  do  very  nicely  for  the  present," 
said  David,  that  night,  to  Isabelle,  as  he 
folded  the  check  and  put  it  in  his  pocket. 
"But,  of  course,  there  is  no  telling  what 
our  future  needs  may  be.  However,"  he 
smiled,  "we  will  cross  that  bridge  when 
we  come  to  it.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  had 
expected  a  settlement  of  the  estate.  It 
would  have  enabled  us  to  see  w  hat  our  re- 
sources were  and  plan  accordingly.  But, 
as  I  say,  this  will  do — for  the  present." 

It  was  with  great  effort  that  Isabelle 
repressed  the  leaping  fires  of  her  indigna- 
tion. But,  in  the  end  she  triumphed  over 
the  hot  impulse  and  said,  simply: 

"I  did  not  a.sk  for  it,  David.  It  was  my 
mother  who  suggested  the  advance.  I 
would  not  have  asked  for  it.     And  after 


The  Golden  Poppy 


283 


this  I  shall  accept  no  more  from  her.  I 
shall  positively  refuse  to  impoverish  her, 
or  strip  the  homestead  while  my  mother 
lives." 

He  wheeled  about  from  the  mirror  to 
face  her.  There  was  a  deadly  glint  in  his 
eyes  and  his  fists  clenched  tightly. 

She  looked  curiously  into  his  face,  as 
though  she  might  have  discovered  in  the 
distorted  outline  some  new  and  hitherto 
undreamed  of  touch.  She  waited  for  him 
to  speak.  But.  he  said  no  word;  and 
turned  hack,  presently,  to  the  glass. 

Shortly  after,  he  went  out,  without 
speaking. 

"Was  David  pleased,  my  dear?"  asked 
Mamman.  when  he  had  gone. 

"Oh,  yes.  Mumzie  dear,"  said  Tsabelle, 
bravely.  "He  was  delighted.  Only,  he 
has  a  great  deal  on  his  nu'nd  and  some- 
times overlooks  the  little  amenities.  He 
takes  life  quite  seriously,"  she  laughed. 

And  Mamman  laughed  too.  But  the 
veil  was  too  thin  for  Madame  Labelle. 
She  had  seen  too  nmch  of  life  to  be  de- 


284 


The  Golden  Poppy 


ceived  by  her  daughter's  brave  attempt 
to  conceal  the  truth.  It  was  plain  to  her 
that  Randon's  demeanor  at  leaving  could 
have  but  one  inter])retation.  He  was  dis- 
appointed. Me  had  expected  more.  How 
much  had  he  received  already?  How  long 
would  her  resources  last,  if  left  to  the 
mercy  of  this  foolish  and  conceited  young 
man?  There  would  be  no  more  funds 
advanced ! 

She  felt  a  pang  of  pity  for  her  child, 
sitting  there  before  her.  smiling  away  the 

truth. 

Ah,  she  knew  the  narrow  channels,  the 
shallow,  selfish  motives  of  men's  minds. 

But.  she.  too.  had  a  woman's  heart,  a 
woman's  shrinking  fear  of  brutal  facts,  of 
hidden  sores.  And  so,  she  smiled  back 
at  Isabelle.  albeit  her  heart  was  sad;  and 
nodded  understanding. 


c"nAPTi:R  '^[IIRT^•-T\v^. 

I  lie  (lay  of  the  sailin,!^  (iawned,  hri^rlu 
and  warm.  The  IcikIcm-  preen  of  buddinf^ 
leaves  peeped  shyly  from  the  h"ttle  brown 
pods  that  still  shielded  off  the  cold  of  the 
early  sprino^  nii^Hits.  Birds  flitted  inisily 
nnions:  the  trees,  buildincr  their  nests  and 
sinn:ing  of  their  happiness. 

David  left  home  shortly  after  breakfast. 

ft  was  after  four  in  the  afternoon  when 
he  returned.  He  appeared  tired  and  worn 
from  the  day's  exertions.  At  dinner  he 
ate  sparingly. 

He  spoke  of  the  Rochettes,  whom  he 
had  seen  during  the  day,  of  St.  JuHen, 
who  had  done  so  much  for  him,  of  the 
accommodations  aboard  the  ship  and  the 
transfer  of  his  trunks  and  bags  to  the 
dock. 

[28oJ 


jS6 


'J  he  Coliicu   I'oppy 


l-alu-llc  ;iiul  Maniman  follo\v«i(i  him 
clo-ily,  pressMip;  liini  to  cat.  the  while. 

When  he  went  inti)  tlie  hedrooni,  hefore 
leaving,  Isahelle  came  up  to  him,  her  arms 
outstretched  to  emhracc  iiim.  lie  took 
her   in   his   arm-   and   kissed   her  on   the 

mouth. 

Her  form  (juivered  in  the  emhrace  and 
lie  thought  he  heard  a  low.  -uffused  soh. 
1  le  pushed  her  hack  gently. 
"No  scene,  my  dear!"  he  said.  "It  is 
only  for  a  short  time;  and.  think  of  the 
prize!  Come,  let  us  go.  It  is  getting 
late.     The  Rochettes  will  he  waiting." 

He  led  her  out  of  the  room.  Maniman 
was  in  the  library,  dressed  for  the  street. 
She  turned,  smiling,  to  the  young  couple. 
"The  car  is  here."  she  announced. 
David  made  hasty  adieux  to  .\ntoinettc 
and  led  the  way  out  of  the  house.  He  was 
visibly  nervous.  Arriving  at  the  dock, 
he  assisted  the  two  women  up  the  gang- 
plank to  the  deck  of  the  ship. 

The    Rochettes    were   there,   near   the 
guard-rail,    surrounded    by    a    party    of 


The   Coldoi    Poppx 


287 


friends  and  relatives.  They  greeted  the 
Randons  warmly  and  chatted  about  the 
voyage  and  the  chances  for  a  pleasant 
I)assage. 

The  deck  was  crowded  with  closely 
packed  groups,  thro-i^h  which  stewards 
and  deck-hands  svornied  laboriously,  in  an 
endeavor  to  perform  their  work.  From 
somewhere  aloft,  it  might  have  been  the 
I'ridge.  a  wlii>tle  shrilled  above  the  tumult 
of  the  deck. 

Soon,  an  officer  passed  from  group  to 
group,  announcing  that  all  these  11  )t  tak- 
ing passage  nuist  leave  the  ship. 

.\  long  stream  of  people  ribboned  down 
the  gangplank,  slowly. 

The  throng  on  the  main  deck  thinned  to 
a  few  clinging  knots  in  the  semi-darkness. 
Mrs.    Rochette    was    laughing    as    she 
>-eized  Isabelle  by  the  hand. 

"We  shall  bring  him  back  safe  and 
sound,"  she  a.,sured,  in  a  tone  which  was 
meant  to  encourage. 

"\'es.  Madame,  safe  and  sound,"  echoed 
Rochette  himself. 


288 


riw   C.ohicn    I'nppy 


Another  blast  from  the  whistle  wirned 

thetii. 

it   was  short   and  sharp  and  earned  a 

tone  oi  final'ty. 

l>al)elle  uirned  to  1  )avid. 

She    fell    a    chokins^    sen-alioii    in    her 

throat. 

She  wished  to  cry  out.  to  rebel,  to  ffo 
with  hiiu  over  the  boniuliti^-  ea.  any- 
where, to  the  end  of  the  way. 

Then  -he  fell  hi-  lii'-  upon  her  own.  in 
a  swifl.  tleelint,^  ki-^.  that  buiiied  with 
very  bitterness. 

A  moment  later  he  was  j^one. 

"Come,  dear  child."  soothed  the  voice  of 
Maniman. 

They  ttirned  to  the  t^ani^-plank  and  fol- 
lowed the  loni^:  cortet^e. 


ciiAi'T;:k  I  iiiRT\-TiiRi.:i.:. 


'•O 


111 

til 


of 

)1- 


I 


I  lie  iioiisc  sccnii'd  very  lari^^c  and  very 
fiiipty,  ii(»u,  to  JsalK'llc. 

Tlie  .i^oin-  ,.t"  David  left  a  void  in  her 
lite,  which,  do  uliat  sIk-  would,  she  miLdit 
not  fill.  ^ 

And  yet,  a  voice  in  her  heart  told  her 
that  her  love  for  him  was  a  wasted  gift, 
a  Haiiie  to  whose  exquisite  radiance  he 
must  stumble  on  blind  and  cold.  She,  her- 
self, marveled  at  the  clingin-  quality,  the 
vine-like  tenderness  of  lier  devotion.'  The 
home  took  on  a  dungeon  gloom.  The  city 
with  its  maddened  throngs,  whirled  and 
snicked  and  tossed  before  her  like  some 
horrible  monster  in  pain. 

She  longed  to  flee,  to  be  away  from  the 
belching  swirl;  to  visit  scenes  of  smiling 
peace;  to  roam  the  meadows  and  the  wiid- 
wood  and  hear  the  tinkle  of  soft  bells  at 

US9] 


J 


290 


The  Golden  Poppy 


eventide;  to  kiss  the  wild  flowers,  wet 
with  dew;  to  feel  the  thrall  of  exultation 
in  the  throated  pa^an  of  field  and  forest. 

A  great  yearning  came  upon  her  for  the 
scenes  of  her  childhood. 

Oh,  to  be  a  care-free  child  again  and 
hear  the  bo'uolinks  in  springtime! 

One  day  she  made  decision.  She  would 
go  back  with  her  mother  to  Lamartinette. 
Mamman  agreed  gladly  to  the  plan.  Isa- 
belle  was  not  only  her  child;  but,  a  de- 
lightful companion  as  well.  Antoinette 
would  remain  in  charge  of  the  home. 


In  the  valley  of  the  Richelieu  the  white 
and  coral  of  apple  bloom  lay  in  gorgeous 
mantles  over  the  rolling  orchards. 

They  arrived  after  night  had  fallen. 
The  soft,  warm  night  of  budding  summer. 
The  countryside  lay  bathed  in  moonlight. 

The  air  was  laden  with  the  breath  of 
many  flowers  that  banked  the  ditches 
along  the  winding  road. 


7/r   Golden  Poppy 


291 


Clear  and  shrill,  the  piping  of  frogs 
rose  in  a  riotous  medley  of  silver  song. 
Great,  scattering  constellations  stretched 
across  the  sombre  vault  of  sky,  as  though 
some  mighty  sower  had  gone  forth  and 
showered  the  azure  field  with  glittering 
crumbs  of  gold. 

The  young  leaves  rustled  in  the  croon- 
ing breeze.  In  the  dimness  were  the  forms 
of  cattle,  browsing. 

1  ^allelic  thrillef'  with  a  joy  she  had  not 
known  before. 

The  homestead  rose  in  silent  majesty  to 
greet  her,  its  proud  outline  alight  beneath 
the  moon. 

A  door  went  wide  and  Ernestine  came 
out,  hastening  across  the  yard  to  meet 
theni. 

"Home!"  said  Isabelle,  tears  welling  in 
her  eyes. 

"Yes,  home,  cherie."  echoed  her  moth- 
er's voice. 

Through  the  window,  as  they  neared 
the  bouse,  they  glimpsed  the  bending 
form   of   Philomene,    silhouetted   against 


292 


The  Golden  Poppy 


the  kitchen  wall,  as  she  went  about  her 
work  at  the  stove.  The  widow  of  Xazaire 
greeted  the  rettirning  women  with  a  fleet- 
ing smile  and  a  brief  "bon  jour,"  and  pro- 
ceeded to  lay  the  dishes  for  the  evening 
meal,  w^hich  had  been  delayed  against 
their  coming. 

When  they  had  eaten,  Isabelle  retired 
to  her  room.  The  windows  were  open. 
The  white  curtains,  blown  by  the  warm 
wind,  floated  gracefully  in  the  air.  From 
below  came  the  gla<l.  insistent  chorus  of 
katydids,  b^ire-flics  s])angle(l  the  grasses 
like  twinkling  stars. 

Isabelle  lighted  the  lamp  and  drew  a 
chair  to  the  w'indow. 

She  felt  strangely  perturbed.  And  yet. 
she  was  face  to  face  with  a  great  happi- 
ness. 

If  she  had  i)Ut  known  in  time  to  tell  him 
before  his  g'^ng.  perhaps  he  would  not 
have  been  so  cold,  so  indifferent.  Perhaps 
it  would  have  drawn  to  the  surface  hid- 
den, slumbering  hres  within  him.  Per- 
haps the  promise  of  his  parenthood  would 


The  Golden  Poppy 


^93 


have  softened   the   strati.^-e   mettle  of  his 
lieart. 

If  only  she  could  have  looked  into  his 
eyes  and  heard  him  say  that  he  was  glad! 
He  had  .L,M.ne,  not  knowing,  not  suspect- 
ing; and  she  would  hear,  alone,  the  an- 
guish and  the  pain. 

But.  oh,  she  did  not  quell;  nor  shrink 
from  the  ordeal.     Gladly  she  w(nild  bear 
the   yoke.      With   eager   hope  she   would 
wait   the  hour   when   she  might  clasp  in 
fond  embrace  love's  trusting  messenger. 
Her  thoughts  took  wing.    What  would 
David    say-      Ah,    well    she    knew.      He 
v,-oul(l  rejoice.      \u)V,  men  were  proud  of 
fatherhood.     1  le  might  regret  that  he  had 
gone  without   her  and  wish  to  have  her 
with    him,    now.      Her    face    clouded    in 
thought.   She  must  do  nothing  that  would 
disturb  his  [)lans.      But.   he  must   know. 
He  had  a  right  to  know.     She  must  not 
rob  him  of  the  joy  that  would  be  his.    She 
had  received  no  letter  from  him  since  he 
had  gone.      But.   she   would  not   wait  to 
hear  from  David.     She  knew  his  address 


294 


The  (iohicti  f'oppx 


in  X'ienna— the  Allgeincinc  Krankcnhaus. 
He  had  told  her. 

It  nii^ht  take  too  lon^- — to  wait.  She 
would  write  and  tell  hini  the  ,£,dafl  tidin,£^s. 
Maninian  did  not  know.  Nobody  knew. 
She  would  write  hiin  first — and  then— the 
world  might  know! 

So.  she  sat  in  the  lamp  lij^dit  and  i)oured 
out  the  seeret  of  her  heart ;  poured  out  the 
love  that  burned  like  a  flame  in  her  breast ; 
poured  r)ut  her  hopes  and  glad  yearnings; 
but  said  not  a  word  of  her  fears. 

She  rose  early  on  the  morrow  and  drove 
to  Lamartinette.  not  deigning  to  entrust 
the  mailing  of  the  letter  to  other  hands. 

She  crossed  the  bridge  to  St.  John's  and 
made  a  few  purchases  in  the  scores. 

It  was  a  bright,  warm  dav  and  the 
bloom-scented  air  hung  heavy  in  languor- 
ous waves. 

She  felt  keenly  alive  to  the  spirit  of  the 
wanton  Spring,  that  recked  not  of  care  or 
sorrow  and  lived  her  fleeting  days  in  a 
song-laden  bower. 

White  .sails  flecked  the  deep  blue  of  the 


The  Golden   I'oppy 


295 


river,  like  tlie  milky  wings  of  great  hover- 
ing butterflies.  Children  shouted  at  play 
along  the  l)anks. 

Habitants,  gravely  polite,  drove  by, 
bowing  to  Isabelk-  with  a  "bon  jour, 
Madame  '■ 

A  wonderful  serenity  lay  upon  the 
scene. 

The  soothing  mysticism  of  the  earth 
lulled  her  senses  to  the  sweet  contentment 
of  .1  trusting  child. 

She  drove  by  the  college  on  her  way  to 
the  homestead;  but  the  grounds  were  de- 
serted and  Pierre  was  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

She  did  not  alight;  but  went  on,  at  a 
faster  gait,  past  the  outer  fringe  of  dwell- 
ings, into  the  rolling  country. 

There  was  much  to  be  done,  she  knew. 

A  great  task  lay  ahead.  A  long  and 
arduous  road.  But,  oh,  the  joy  that 
would  be  hers  in  the  end !  The  wild  rap- 
ture, the  ecstasy  of  motherhood ! 

In  the  afternoon,  she  sent  word  to 
Pierre  that  she  was  home,  by  Dumonlin, 
who  was  going  to  the  village. 


^96  The  Golden  Poppy 

A   few  days  later   Pierre  paid  a  short 
visit  to  tlie  homestead. 

Isahelle   noted   a   nrreat    ehani^e   in   the 
friend  of  her  childliood. 

He  was  still  the  f'ierre  of  the  old  days, 
quiet  and  kind  and  thou)T:htfuI  of  others.  ' 
But,  it  seemed  to  her  that  the  sterner 
qualities  of  the  man  had  undergone  a  re- 
finmg  process,  that  was  not  unlike  the 
lemperinj;- of  ^leel  f,,r  hi-h  purpose. 

The  hands  were  now  white  and  free  of 
the  nohle  disfiorurements  wroug-ht  hy  the 
plough.     The  stooj)  in  the  siioulder.s  had 
given    way   to   a    straight,   almost    heroic 
poise.    The  f<>atures  of  the  man  had  taken 
on  an  imprint  of  repression  and  self-con- 
trol, which  added  virile  force  to  the  face. 
The  long,   awkward   stride  of  the   farm- 
lad  had  changed  to  an  easy,  balanced  walk, 
that  had  rhythm  and  grace. 

He  appeared  (|uite  unconscious  of  the 
transformation;  and  was  perfectly  at  ease 
amid  his  surroundiuL'-s 

He  laughed  and  chatted  pleasantly    No 
he  had  not  yet  taken  his  vows.     He  was 


riic  Golden  f'opf'x 


297 


ver\   pn.tul  of  liis  little  men;  and  liked  to 
lie    was    devotinjT-    much    of    his 


teach. 


spare  time  to  readint:. 


M; 


,ed 


lig^ht    iunch 


lamnian    serv 
when  tlK-y  had  eaten,  they  walked  out  into 
the  i^arden  where  the  tlnuers  were. 

It  was  all  \ery  peaceful  and  home-like. 

Mien.  !i  seemed  \ery  soon,  he  an- 
nounced that  he  must  lie  going  back  to  the 
college. 

And  when  lie  had  left,  a  feeling  of  lone- 
liness crept  into  the  heart  of  Isabelle.     A 
feeling  of  sadness  and  sorrow,  as  though 
some  one  wIimh,  she  loved  very  dearly  had 
gone  to  return  no  more.     With  great  ef- 
fort she  fought  hack  the  waves  of  regret 
that  rose,  clamoring  loudly,  in  her  breast. 
Xo.  no.  not  that,  not  that!     She  would 
be  happy  yet.     Bui  a  little  while  and  all 
would  be  well.   Three  years.    He  had  said 
that  three  years  would  not  be  long  flitting 
by.     And  when  he  came,  things  would  be 
different.     He  would  be  established.     He 
would  not  be  worried  by  the  little  needs 
that  wore  and  harried  one's  sou'.     Yes, 


298 


The  Golden  Poppy 


that  was  it — he  had  been  worried  so? 
Rut,  all  that  would  be  chant^ed,  when  he 
came  home  aj^ain.  The  letter — he  had  by 
this  time  received  her  <^o()d  news,  their 
^ood  news.  She  would  count  the  days 
until  his  answer  came  Hyin_i(  across  the 
^ca  to  her,  like  a  little  b-rd.,  to  nestle  in  her 
breast.  Oh,  yes,  David  loved  her.  in  his 
way.  He  could  not  show  his  love.  There 
were  such  |)eoj)le.  Mamman  had  told 
her  so. 

Rut  Pierre  —  ah,  li(»w  I'ierre  had 
changefl ! 

The  thouj2:ht  flashed  in  upon  her:  what 
if  he  had  so  .ippcared  to  her  before  she 
married  David — what  if  they  were  both 
free  now ' 

Frio^htened  at  tliis  mere  suggestion  of 
disloyalty,  she  strove  to  shut  it  out  and 
bring  her  mind  to  dwell  <:-.i  other  things. 

P>ut,  Pierre  had  suddenly  become  a  pow- 
erful magnet  to  her  thr)ughts  and  would 
not  be  denied  her  contemplation. 

She  beheld  him  as  the  little  barefoot 
lad,  roaming  the  fields  and  the  woodland, 


The  Cnliicu   /' 


'Pty 


299 


or,  standing  (.11  die  tviof  of  thf  scolding 
l)r(M)k.  hi-  iliou-lufu!  eyes  upon  the  speed- 
ing; >lreani. 

SIu'  >,i\\    liiiii  plucking   wild  flowers  in 
\\w  meadow — wild  dowers  for  her. 

And  then,  tlie  eruel,  widening  gap  of 
\ears,  wink'  slie  \\a~-  away  at  convent;  and 
the  ensuing  cokl  reserve,  instilled  and 
lostered  by  straight  laced  misconceptions 
ol"  the  things  worth  while. 

She  saw.  with  a  shudder  of  pain,  the 
wounded,  broken  look  in  the  jjroud  eyes, 
as  he  entered  her  room,  that  day  in  June. 
and  found  her  standing  in  her  wedding 
gown — the  bride  of  another. 

And  as  she  h.id  gone  to  the  arms  of  that 
"ther  one.  he  had  lied,  as  from  a  pesti- 
k-ncc.  the  golden  setting  of  his  hoyhood. 
to  ponder  on  the  ashes  of  his  hoj)es. 

It  was  a  tragic,  illmy  network,  unreal 
as  the  texture  of  a  dream  or  the  weaving 
'oi  a  tale  that  is  told. 

She  saw  hini  now.  the  outer  husk 
thrown  off,  a  man  revealed  in  his  strong 
attributes. 


4 


30O 


Till'  Golden   f^of'f'x 


I. ike  sonic  tall  i>ak,  he  towered  above, 
sturdy  and  true  and  fearless  of  the  storm. 

And  she  had  made  her  choice.  Siie  had 
chosen  the  other — 

Oh,  nt),  this  was  wron^!  She  uuist  not 
dwell  upon  the  past.  She  had  not  meant 
to  do  so.  r>m  the  thouij^hts — they  flooded 
the  very  jj^ateuay  of  her  soul.  They  beat, 
like  a  maddened  surf,  at  the  walls  of  her 
woman's  heart.  Oh,  (iod,  mi^ht  she  not 
forj^et?  Mif^ht  she  not  put  down  the  bars 
and  call  the  past — the  past  ? 

A-flutter  with  hauntint;  fear,  she  fled 
to  her  mother's  room.  and.  like  a  fright- 
ened child  that  awakes  from  dreams  of 
evil,  nestled  in  those  arni'^  that  were  ever 
waiting. 


CllAf'TKK  TllIFrrV-FOUR. 


i 
i 


1 

.1 


I  lie  (lays  chained  iuU)  weeks.  Isabelle 
watclied  the  arrivals  of  the  steamships, 
listed  in  the  ne\vsj)ai)ers.  which  she  re- 
ceived from  Montreal. 

One  day,  while  scanning-  the  news  col- 
umns, she  came  upon  an  item  which  told 
briefly  of  the  financial  activities  of  one 
Waldon  Tabor,  "who  had  been  swindling 
gullible  young  men  of  means,"  in  the  guise 
of  a  stock  broker. 

A  warrant  had  been  issued  for  the  ar- 
rest of  the  fellow.  But  "the  bird  had 
riown,  together  with  the  woman  supposed 
to  be  his  wife." 

A  wave  of  resentment  surged  within 
lier.  This  common  thief  had  been  per- 
mitted to  fleece  her  people ! 

She  clipped  the  item,  to  enclose  it  in  her 
next  letter  to  David. 


■JUli 


30J 


The  (iolilcit  Toppy 


She  grow  ux-ary  and  heart  >ick  with 
chsa|>i)()iiitiiiciit. 

'Ilieti,  one  evenini;,  I\ei;nault.  thr  old 
postmaster,  >miled  and  winked  an  eye 
ov'T  his  ^n)l(l  rininied  .i;Ia>>e^  and  handed 
her  a  lar^^e.  sijnaie  envfiopr  hearint;  the 
Au'-trian  >>tatiip. 

She  was  at  onec  ni  a  tinrry  ot  excite- 
ment. Ilcr  I'irst  iin])nlse  was  to  oi)en  the 
Utter  and  read  it  on  the  s])ot. 

Init.  shi'  thontj^ht  hetter  of  it  and,  hnr 
ryinjj:  (HU  of  (he  (hnj^'-y  httlc  place  lo  the 
waitinj:^  car,  .-ped  down  the  main  street  of 
the  village  and  over  the  highway  that  led 
lo  the  homestead. 

'File  letter  wa^  written  on  thin,  crack- 
ling paper  which  was  rnled  off  in  little 
hlue  square-^.  There  were  .several  sheets 
of  the  welcome  message. 

The  greater  part  of  the  letter  was  given 
over  to  the  narrative  of  his  voyage,  to  the 
Rochettes,  to  Vienna,  to  the  clinics  in  the 
Austrian  capital  and  his  anihition  to  re- 
turn to  Canada  a  worthy  contender  for 
the  laurels  of  greatness  in  his  profession. 


The  Ctoldcn  Poppx 


303 


ft  was  towards  the  end  of  the  missive 
that  she  came  \\\Mm  the  words  that  struck 
her  cold  and  sick  with  shame  and  indica- 
tion. 

It  was  with  sur[)rise  and  deep  rej^ret 
that  he  Iiad  learned  of  her  unfortunate 
condition. 

Certainly  she  must  understand  that  this 
was  no  time  for  them  to  have  children. 

It  would  jiave  been  time  enough  later 
on  in  life, 
lim,  now! 

Had  they  not  sutiicient  res[>onsihility. 
without  living  in  the  face  of  fate  and  vol- 
unteering to  weight  themselves  down 
with  this,  the  heaviest  burden  of  all.' 

She  must  have  failed  to  take  proper 
care  of  herself.  Else  this  would  not  have 
happened. 

It  would  be  well  for  her  to  see  a  spe- 
cialist  ir.  obstetrics. 

It  miglit  not  be  too  late. 
Something,  perhaps,  could  be  done. 
He  hoped  so. 
For,  this  was  not  his  conception  of  mar- 


304 


The  Golden  Poppy 


ried  life — to  undertake  at  the  outset,  the 
rearing  of  children. 

Me  would  anxiously  await  news  from 
her  on  this  point. 

The  letter  closed  abruptly,  as  though 
the  writer  liad  suddenl\'  heconic  aware 
that  he  was  a  \er\-  busy  man. 

Isahelle  was  seated  on  the  veranda,  as 
she  read  the  letter. 

She  groped  her  way  through  the  clos- 
ing paragraphs,  da.'cd  by  the  brutal 
words. 

Then,  she  had  been,  all  this  time  since 
her  marriage,  no  more  in  his  eyes,  in  his 
life,  than  a  mere  physical  convenience,  a 
purveyor  of  gratification  to  his  passion ! 
A  shield  to  his  respectability.  To  his 
social  status. 

It  was  plain  that  he  did  not  love  her. 
He  had  never  loved  her.  He  was  incapa- 
ble of  love.     Utterly,  hopelessly  so. 

Mamman  was  sitting  beside  her,  in 
pleasurable  anticipation  of  good  news. 

She  was  not  slow  to  note  "  e  changed 
expression   on   her   daughter's   face,   the 


The  Golden  Pnpp\ 


305 


trembling  of  her  hands,  the  determined 
self-repression  in  her  lips. 

The  two  were  silent  for  a  while. 

Presently,  Isahellc  looked  at  the  older 
woman,  with  tear-dimmed  eyes ;  and  said : 

"Me  is  well.  Mamman.     But  he — " 

Mer  voice  broke.  She  could  say  no 
more.  She  thrust  the  letter  into  her 
mother's  lap  and  fled,  in  utter  confusion, 
to  her  room. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-FIVE. 

It  was  not  until  late  in  August  that  Isa- 
belle  wrote  her  answer  to  David's  letter. 

Not  that  she  had  wanted  in  decision  as 
to  what  course  to  follow.  But,  she  was 
fearful  of  the  injustice  that  might  come 
of  haste. 

Too,  there  was  the  welfare  of  the  little 
one  to  consider. 

It  was  a  leap  in  the  dark,  she  knew  well. 
But.  she  could  see  no  alternative. 

He  had  outraged  her  most  sacred  ideal. 
He  had  trampled  her  love  with  ruthless 
cruelty,  suggesting,  in  its  place,  a  make- 
shift union  of  convenience,  which  in  her 
sight,  was  as  revolting  as  it  was  un- 
natural. 

She  had  struggled  with  the  problem 
many  times,  always  to  the  same  conclu- 
sion. 


[3061 


The  Golden  Popp\ 


307 


He  had  killed  her  love! 
Xeverniore  could   he   he   what   he   had 
Ijeen  to  her. 

Convinced  of  this,  she  was  too  honest 
with  herself  and  wiih  him  to  continue  a 
relation  which  had  heconie  a  mere  sanc- 
tioned torm  of  intercourse;  a  license,  ut- 
terly repuj^niaiit  to  her.  to  live  as  man  and 
wife. 

.And  wlien.  after  ir.iiny  days,  she  wrote 
to  David,  it  was  wiih  the  serenity  and 
kindness  that  come  nf  hitter  .sorrow  long 
repressed. 

There  was  a  preamble,  in  which  she  re- 
ferred to  the  recei[)t  of  his  letter,  to  the 
home  in  Montreal,  and  Antoinette. 

She  would  defray  all  the  expenses  until 
he  found  himself  in  a  position  to  do  so. 

Then,  she  came  to  the  subject  that  had 
weighed  so  heavily  upon  her: 

"And  now."  she  said,  "I  am  going  to 
bid  adieu  to  all  I  held  most  dear.  For  you 
and  I  have  come  to  the  parting  of  the 
ways.  I  cannot  bring  myself  to  discuss, 
in  detail,  your  \ievvs  as  expressed  in  your 


3o8 


The  Golden  Popp\< 


letter  on  the  subject  of  what  you  termed 
my  unfortunate  condition.  It  will  suffice 
for  inc  to  say  that  i  disaj^ree  with  you  on 
<  very  point.  I  hold  that  it  is  not  for  you 
or  for  nie  to  say  whether  children  should 
hi-  horn  as  a  rcsnh  of  our  union.  I  am 
aware  that  many  hold  a  dififerent  view. 
But,  they  are,  to  my  way  of  thinking,  de- 
luded, misguided  souls,  who  are  blind  to 
the  higher,  nobler  joys  and  the  duties  of 
wedlock.  To  ask  one's  wife  to  consent  to 
any  such  arrangement  as  you  suggest  is, 
whether  she  realizes  it  or  not,  an  insult  to 
her  womanhood  and  an  admission,  on  the 
part  of  the  man,  that  his  love,  if  such  it 
may  be  termed,  is  of  a  base  and  unworthy 
sort. 

"\'ou  have  misuncK  rstood  me,  David. 

"^  ou  have  never  understood  me. 

"If  you  iiad  had  the  merest  inkling  of 
my  nature,  you  would  not  have  dared  to 
make  the  odious  suggestion  that  I  refuse 
to  bear  to  the  end  the  burden  that  has 
jome  to  you  a.id  to  me  a>  a  result  of  our 
union. 


The  Golden  Poppx 


309 


"I  shall  go  the  allotted  time,  alone,  but 
strong  in  the  belief  that  in  our  little  one 
I  shall  find,  some  day,  the  love  that  you 
denied  me. 

"Do  not  think  1  write  these  lines  in 
haste  or  anger. 

"Words  would  fail  me  utterly,  were  I  to 
try  to  picture  the  anguish  of  heart,  the 
cruel  goading  of  despair  that  I  have 
known. 

"It  is  best  for  you  and  nje,  best  for  the 
little  one,  that  we  two  part. 

"And  my  decision  is  irrevocable — as  is 
death  itself. 

"For,  my  love  is  dead. 

"Oh,  David,  David,  had  you  but 
granted  me  the  merest  crumbs  of  kind- 
ness, crumbs  such  as  the  little  sparrows 
feed  on,  I  would  have  gathered  them 
eagerly,  jealously  to  my  starving  breast 
and  showered  my  burning  love  upon  you 
in  return. 

"But.  now,  all  that  is  gone,  withered 
and  dead. 

'You  will  be  great. 


3IO 


The  Golden   f'oj^py 


"It  is  my  fondest  nraycr  that  tlie  world 
may  crown  yoti  with  its  laurels. 

"I>ut,  even  then — in  the  jjroudest  mo- 
ments of  achievement,  will  yoti  he  happy? 

"Can  one  stirround  one's  heart  with 
stone  and  know  the  pulse  of  t^ladness,  the 
p^reat.  expansive  joy  of  love^ 

"I  would  rather  hear  the  cooinj^  of  the 
little  one  that  is  to  come  than  the  mad- 
dened plaudits  of  a  fickle  thronp;-. 

"F'arewell!  Since  you  have  chosen  to 
seek  .i^lory  to  the  exclusion  of  all  else,  may 
glory  wait  upon  you!     David,  farewell!" 

She  sealed  the  letter  and  handed  it  tr 
Bissonette.  who  was  t^^oiiii^  tn  the  village. 

Then,  he  picked  u])  an  infant's  slip  on 
the  sewing  tahle  and  studied  the  pattern 
of  a  little  flower  that  was  stamped  in  hlue 
on  the  filmv  fahric. 


CHAPTER  TIJIRTV-SIX. 


Sprinnr  smiled  again  in  the  valley  of  the 
Richelieu,  and  the  hrcath  of  apple  bloom 
lay  heavy  in  the  air. 

Pierre  had  conic  to  the  grea^  decision 
and  scaled  it  with  his  vows. 

And  now,  he  was  going  forth  into  the 
great  Northwest,  to  sow  the  seeds  of 
knowledge  and  of  fortitude. 

P.Iessed  soil,  that  would  receive  his 
ministrations ! 

The  hour  of  another  parting  had  rung 
in  the  life  of  Isabelle. 

She  stood  in  the  gab'^d  window  and 
watched  the  black,  receding  form,  as 
slowly  he  climbed  the  ascent  in  the  road 
that  led  to  the  village  and  to  the  world 
beyond. 

Once,  her  heart  leaped  with  blind  hope, 
when  Pierre,  coming  to  the  crest  of  the 

[311] 


31^ 


The  (idldrii   Pi^ppx 


knoll,  halted  and  looked  back  over  the 
smiling  valley. 

A  moment  later  he  had  disappeared. 

Into  her  heart  stole  the  sadness  of  a 
great  regret  and  an  eeho  of  the  golden 
days  now  gone  murmured,  chiding,  of  the 
love  that  might  have  been. 

Bravely  she  fought  back  the  welling 
tears. 

With  a  weary  sigh  she  turned  from  the 
purpling  vista  to  the  babe  in  the  cradle 
beside  her. 

And  at  sight  of  this  her  son,  she  thrilled 
with  the  gladness  of  hope  and  the  promise 
of  fulfillment. 

Slowly  the  shadows  deepened  in  the 
valley. 

The  stars  sallied  forth  in  a  ballet  of 
shimmering  gold. 

A  round,  red  moon  sat  in  st..te  on  the 
peak  of  a  distant  spur. 

The  tirkle  of  a  sheep-bell  floated  anon 
over  the  fields. 

Through  the  stilly  watches  of  the  night 


The  Golden  Poppy 


3M 

she  sat   in   tlu-  gahle.l   window,   keepine 
vigil  with  the  stars. 

Ah.  the  mystery  of  ni^^ht  and  of  hfe< 
N>c' mystery  of  love-      Ih.  em.-„,a  ..f  ,,,; 
own  poor  heart ! 

One   by  one   the   watcher^   of   the   skv 
ucaried  and  sank  to  rest. 

A  cliill  wind  rushed,  scolding,  from  the 
valley. 

Far  and  near  cocks  shrilled  the  matin 
call. 

A  silvered  veil  of  dawn  was  unfolding 
'n  the  east,  when  she  roused  from  her 
dreammg  and  lowered  the  yellow  flame  of 
the  lamp. 


THE  END. 


NIC.   B  N  (. 

J  J28b  08b53856 


-'vi-K-'?%'v**'«' 


•  /)pt^-.;«:  -^rrsycx. 


